


Caveat Emptor

by manic_intent



Series: Caveat Emptor [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kmeme.  During those relatively "fun" younger years, Anders managed to spawn but he never found out about it.  Fast forward. Mage!Hawke (or whatever) and Anders were together, Anders dies either by Hawke's hand or in the ensuing fighting/running and hiding.  And then let's say ten years after that, Hawke meets a rash mage!revolutionary embroiled in the cause who happens to look exactly like dear old (dead) dad. Hawke is in total love/lust with what is, in effect, a shiny new, younger, non-Justiced version of his/her dead love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caveat Emptor

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is what I have to say about age gaps – if I could, I would totally date RDJ. :) In this fic, 'younger years' will be defined as 'pre Warden Anders', so Anders would be approximately late 20s when he had the kid. Mentally I think of default Hawke as nudging or past late 20s rather than early just so that I don't personally feel old... (-_- ok that's enough personal revelation for now)... and my shaky math has failed me...
> 
> tldr, in this fic, somehow through the Gods of Math and Fandom, Hawke is at least 15-20 years older than baby!Anders.

I.

Kirkwall in the throes of winter didn't have an inch on the Anderfels, but the old stone of its Keep took in winter's chill just as easily as Weisshaupt's. Dieter shifted his weight surreptitiously, feeling grateful for the thick fur-lined hooded cloak that had been a personal gift from the Weisshaupt Wardens when he had been called east. Around him, the ragged little band of mages tried their best not to look as though they were huddling for warmth. Fereldans one and all, they weren't used to the chill, and Archon Irving had been arguing with Viscount Hawke of Kirkwall for what certainly felt like eternity.

 _They could have at least offered them chairs_ , Dieter thought, suppressing a sigh. It had been a hard journey deep into the Free Marches, dodging Hunters and the Chantry-loyal once past Cumberland, not daring to travel by sea and chance Royeaux dreadnaughts and Hunter skimmers. Ever since the Chantry had perfected the runes of negation, the Waking Sea was death for any ship that didn't fly Chantry colors.

Stifling another sigh, Dieter peered under the brim of his hood at the throne of Kirkwall, at the man who sat slouched upon it, dressed in an armor almost as famous as the name of the one who wore it; a thick wolf's fur lay across surprisingly broad shoulders, tapering into a black gorget, breastplate and light metal scale greaves, leather sleeves and breeches, the getup in full resembling a warrior's outfit rather than a mage's chosen gear. And Hawke was indeed a _mage_ , one whose name was burned into the history of Thedas, as was that of his cousin the Warden-Commander, in stories more unbelievable and unthinkable with each telling.

Uriel Hawke.

Hawke was growing past his prime, the once comely symmetry of his face marred by war and the cares of his throne, etched with a scar over his left cheek and one jagged cut over his slightly crooked nose, perhaps from breaking one too many times; worry lines were worked into the edges of his steely, amber-brown eyes and the hard set to his sleekly bearded jaw, and silver was edging into into his sideburns. Beside him stood his younger brother, the Hunter-Commander of Kirkwall, Carver Hawke, who seemed less affected by time, his ascetic face less careworn, his hair with no touch of silver, dressed in a well-worn set of Hunter armor, with the templar crest of old upon his breastplate crossed from the top left to the bottom right with a dramatic red diagonal.

Dieter had heard popular rumors that Carver Hawke was the one who controlled the throne of Kirkwall, who had placed a mage upon it such that Kirkwall could stand aloof from the war that consumed the rest of Thedas, despite the blasted ground where the Chantry had once been, still untouched in its death-pall since the Catalyst.

After all, despite having slain the Knight-Commander and having preserved part of the Kirkwall Circle during the Catalyst, the Champion of Kirkwall stayed uninterested in the war, save whenever it came calling on his doorstep. With allegiances between the other Free Marches nations, however, Starkhaven in particular, and bounded by the perilous Vimmark Mountains, Kirkwall remained impossible to crack.

Still, looking at how Carver and Uriel interacted, the puppet Viscount scenario seemed unlikely. If anything, it seemed as though Carver was deferring to his older brother, as he bent for a moment at a beckoning twitch of long fingers from Hawke, murmuring to each other before straightening back up beside the throne. Hawke nodded slowly, then he rested his chin on his bared palm, and stared back down at Irving.

“You've sent envoys before, Irving. You and the Divine both. I'll repeat to you what I told all of them. Kirkwall stands neutral from the Exalted March _and_ from the Circles' rebellions.” Hawke's mouth curled faintly, as though into a smile, or a silent snarl. “And you've quite a nerve coming here yourself, _Archon_. The Hunters' flags have flown from the battlements of the Gallows since their conception.”

“Under the command of your brother,” Irving countered. The mage had been old even before the March, and the war had not been kind; his back was stooped, and his parchment-pale, wrinkled hands balanced his weight against his staff more heavily than they should, yet his tone was steady and firm. “And despite having such a fortified and formidable Hunter presence within your city, you remain firmly upon the Viscount's throne. You, the most celebrated apostate of them all.”

“'Apostate'. I haven't heard that term for well over half a decade,” Hawke observed, scratching absently at the silver against his temple. “Flattery does not work on me, Irving, however amusingly ill-placed. I will not take sides in your war. My responsibilities end at my borders.”

“I thought to appeal to our common nature. In person.”

“Magic is a tool to me,” Hawke disagreed idly, “It does not define me, nor will I allow it to do so. Instead allow me to appeal to a common _sense_. Kirkwall is a trade city that exports quarried metals, lyrium and stone for its bread and supper. It's grown rich upon it, and I wager that you could walk a day through Darktown ten years ago and again today and not recognise an inch of flagstone, and you'll find not one of Kirkwall's guests or citizens who has to go hungry. We have no militia-”

“Call it what you like,” Irving interrupted, “But you command an army. Your 'city guard', the remnants of the Kirkwall Circle and other mages who have ill-chosen to stand apart from the war, as well as your brother's Hunters, for all that they wear the crossed blade on their breastplates, have successfully repelled sieges from the March and from jealous neighbors.”

Hawke snorted. “A common defensive purpose does not an army make, Archon. Your visit stinks of desperation. The runes of negation must be a greater thorn in the side of your cause than I thought, for you to have braved the journey from Cumberland yourself with such a tiny delegation. Tell me, Irving, do you truly think that one single city's involvement could turn the tides in your favor?”

“You supply lyrium to the highest bidder. That bidder is the Chantry. Your mines run deep. With the Chantry-held mines either depleted or contested, yours is a valuable source. Should you withhold it, the Chantry will weaken.”

“If you want me to stop supplying the Chantry,” Hawke leaned back on his throne, “Then make me a better offer.”

Dieter clenched his fists, and beside him, Annabelle muttered something rude under her breath, but Irving forged on, undeterred. “You hold a long and deep alliance with Starkhaven, Ostwick, Hercinia and Wycome. Should you take sides, so will they.”

“Starkhaven has already taken sides, and Prince Vael respects my neutrality. As to the other coastal Free Marches cities, I cannot speak for them. Nor should you.”

Irving sighed. “It has been a long and bitter war, Hawke. Morale is flagging, on both sides. Yours is a name that could still-”

“I sided with the templars during your so-called Catalyst,” Hawke interrupted coldly.

“Initially. And then you slew Meredith.”

“She was possessed.”

“It was a symbol that you destroyed that day, a story of your making that spread forth to set the world aflame. You slew the Knight-Commander, and instead of being killed in turn, or made Tranquil, the remaining templars went down on their knees and named you Viscount. You, a mage.”

“I had no intention to spark a war across Thedas, or one of the Marches.” Hawke said quietly, levelly. “And I've no intention to involve the people whom I am responsible for in one of them. Have you tried my cousin?” Here he smiled, thin and mirthless. “I hear that her name too still carries some weight against the easily gulled.”

“She refused,” Irving admitted. “The Wardens fight a different war, and to them, ours is of little concern. But the runes of negation threaten all of us. She understands that.”

“ _I_ understand that. It doesn't make me any more eager to start changing the pennants on my battlements.”

“She offered me aid in her stead,” Irving said, even as Dieter straightened quickly. “The mages of Weisshaupt and Vigil's Keep who cared to leave have joined our cause.”

“Good for them. No doubt they'll be useful should the Chantry ever subvert darkspawn to their cause,” Hawke drawled, almost contemptuous, but Irving was speaking before Dieter could snap something, protocol be damned.

“The mages, and one other matter,” Irving said delicately. “But I would prefer to show you privately.”

Hawke glanced up at Carver, and they murmured among themselves for a moment, before Hawke looked back up. “My brother stays.”

“Very well.” Irving nodded at the others, who began to file out of the throne room along with the guards that lined the sides of the hall. As Dieter turned to follow, feeling disappointed, Irving added, “Not you, Dieter.”

Hawke arched an eyebrow, but didn't comment, until the throne room was empty, the great double doors at the end of the hall closing shut with a dull, final echo. “Well?”

“Vigil's Keep has its share of servants and common folk,” Irving said in a non sequitur, somewhat to Dieter's surprise, “And on occasion, prior to a Joining, the Warden recruits avail themselves of a few last days of humanity.”

“I'm waiting to see how this is relevant,” Hawke said, with a touch of impatience.

“The children that may come from this are often recruited into the Wardens' service, and they themselves often become Wardens when they come of age. They learn the blade once they can hold it, or magic once they show talent for it, trained for combat and survival rather than imprisoned in a Circle. Small wonder that many mage Wardens left when they could. For many of them, they've only ever known freedom. Dieter here, for example, was sent directly to Cumberland by the Warden-Commander when he expressed a wish to leave before undertaking a Joining. Dieter, pull up your hood, if you please.”

“Very well,” Dieter said, somewhat uncomfortably. Irving had instructed them all to keep their hoods pulled low, in case the Hunters received any strange ideas. He wasn't sure why Irving would instruct him otherwise now, with the leader of Kirkwall's Hunters only a few feet away, but he supposed that the Archon had his reasons. Digging his fingers into the furred brim, he pulled it up and over his blonde hair.

Hawke's reaction was... _incomprehensible_. He paled instantly, rising partway from the throne, then slumping back down upon it as though he were a puppet with his strings suddenly cut. Beside him, Carver actually took a step forward, with a gasped oath, using the Maker's name in vain, also growing white to his lips, his hand clenched tight on the hilt of the longsword at his hip.

Puzzled, and disconcerted, Dieter looked quickly over at Irving. “I haven't grown a pair of horns or something, have I? That would be embarrassing.”

“It's a trick,” Hawke said, sounding strangled, his hands curled tight in the arms of his throne. “A damned _trick_. Carver?”

Carver frowned, and Dieter flinched as he felt the all-too-familiar, intrusive shock of a purge. “Magic isn't the cause, brother.”

“A son. He had a son? Before the Joining?” Hawke rose shakily to his feet, but his loping stride took on his usual cool confidence once he approached them, and Dieter found himself locked in Hawke's silent, arresting stare, unable to look away, unable to breathe, he instinctively narrowed his eyes and glared back, hoping that he looked defiant rather than petulant. If he was here to represent Weisshaupt, he would not disappoint the Wardens.

“This is Dieter, late of Weisshaupt Fortress, of the Anderfels.” Irving introduced him. Hawke shuddered visibly as the Archon pronounced the last word of his sentence, and his expression hardened, turning from a strange expression of naked wonder into a stony, banked anger. “The Warden-Commander told me to present him to you personally.”

“It looks like I must have a word with my cousin,” Hawke said flatly, far more unfriendly now than he was before, when arguing with Irving; there was a static sensation, a humming whisper at the back of Dieter's mind, the hint of a vast arcane reserve that was only barely held in check. “Some people here have long memories. Have you any idea what you may have done, bringing him to Kirkwall?”

“We do not intend to remain here.” Irving said mildly, though he smiled faintly as he said this.

The sound of a longsword being partially pulled from its sheath was loud in even in the cavernous chamber, even as Hawke sucked in a deep breath, his long fingers twitching at his flanks. “Give me _one_ reason why I shouldn't clap you in chains! You'd dare, you with your _blasted_ war and your _Maker-damned_ demands?” Carver spat, from the throne, but Hawke raised a palm, closing his eyes briefly, and the Hunter subsided into an angry grumble and an unintelligible curse.

“Carver. Please. Perhaps we should discuss your... proposals further in my office, Archon,” Hawke said, though his tone was as wintry as the blizzard that blanketed his city. “In the meantime, allow me to offer you and yours the hospitality of my Keep.”

II.

Hunters had escorted them all to a lush set of guest quarters in the eastern wing of the sprawling Keep, and after making a couple of circuits of it, Dieter became heartily bored. He had been more or less kicked out of the throne room posthaste after the incident, and left to his thoughts, he couldn't quite parse Irving's words, Hawke's reaction. The others were of no use – it had been a long trek, they were weary, cold and hungry, and faced with roasts, fresh bread and soups served by silent servants straight to the guest quarters, the other mages had eaten their fill and retired abed, leaving Dieter to sit cross-legged by the stone fireplace and wait for Irving's return.

The best conclusion was that Dieter's unknown father was someone whom Hawke knew. Someone _important_ to Hawke whom the Warden-Commander knew that Hawke knew. A Warden, perhaps. Or a man who had fallen to the templars; likely a fellow mage. Perhaps he resembled his father – no, judging from Hawke's and Carver's reactions, he definitely did so. The Hawke brothers had acted as though they'd seen a ghost.

He stifled his instinctive disappointment and vague resentment quickly. He _had_ thought himself a strange choice over the other, more experienced Wardens, when Irving had asked him to accompany the delegation to Kirkwall, but he had been flattered by the choice, and besides, he had been curious. Few men got to meet one living legend in their lives, let alone two within the same half year, counting the Warden-Commander. And besides, if he put his own pride aside, this could be for the better. The Circles needed Hawke. Kirkwall was a rich, fortified and formidable city. Even if Hawke did nothing but open up his borders to the Circles, it would be a considerable strategic foothold, seated as it was on a major trade route in the Waking Sea, and just across the sea from Ferelden.

Staring into the flames, Dieter bit out an oath and flinched violently when someone cleared his throat just behind him. He scrambled around, nearly tumbling over into the fireplace, and the culprit merely grinned at him as he threw out his hands to keep his balance.

The intruder was the strangest dwarf that Dieter had ever seen, stout and broad like all of his kind, but beardless, tawny hair growing gray at his temples. The dwarf's grin was all mischief and good nature that seemed years younger than the crows' feet at his eyes and the gray bristles at his chin, and he wore a colorful, lovingly patched old trenchcoat over a newer, thick wooly tunic, the only concession towards winter that the dwarf allowed. Broad, gold-buckled belts cinched oxblood breeches that were tucked into out-of-fashion, bucket-topped boots, and there was a massive, almost unrecognisably tinkered-with runed crossbow slung across the dwarf's back.

“Varric Tethras. Merchant Guild's Guildmaster. At your service.” The dwarf's handshake was bone-crackingly firm. “No, don't bother to rise.”

“I'm Dieter.” Awkwardly, Dieter shook Varric's hand, remaining seated by the fireplace as the dwarf peered carefully at his face, as though measuring him up, or memorizing his features.

“Huh. Junior wasn't bloody joking. Maker's balls, you're a spitting image of him. Other than your downy chin. Are you even old enough to shave?”

Dieter scowled. “I'm certainly old enough to shave!”

“Oh?” Varric grinned at him, “And how old would you be?”

“Twenty winters. Nearly,” Dieter added, self-consciously, as Varric's grin widened. “Why is that amusing, Herr Tethras, pray tell?”

“I've met the Warden-Commander once. Can't get a read on that one. She'll smile and tell you one thing and you'll know that she's thinking about something else. Possibly about the closest route between her dagger and your neck. Word has it that she'll snap her fingers and the King of Ferelden would come running.” Varric squinted at him. “She sent you here. Do you know why?”

“Of course I do,” Dieter snapped, stung at the insinuation that he was out of place, or too young. “I'm at the top of my class in Weisshaupt Fortress.”

“Smart, are you?”

He was sure that the dwarf was laughing at him, somehow. “I meant power. Arcane power.”

“Stronger than your Archon?”

“He's...” Irving was a kindly soul, with a quiet, unbreakable strength in the face of all adversity that Dieter admired. Without Irving's tactical mind and talent for the details, he suspected that the Circles would not have held on as long as they had against the Chantry, the Hunters, and now the runes of negation. “He's a good man. But he's grown old. He shouldn't have come.”

Varric winked. “Stronger than Hawke?”

Dieter hesitated. He'd felt along the edges of Hawke's power, when the Viscount's hold upon his temper had begun to fray, but older mages tended to guard their connection to the Fade jealously, afraid of the attention that they might attract, so he couldn't be too sure of how much the Viscount might bring to a duel – or leave out of it. “I'll give him a run for his coin.”

“I might put money on that, Wonderboy,” Varric clapped him on the shoulder with a chortle.

“Besides, I'm sure that most of the stories about him aren't true,” Dieter said loftily, somewhat annoyed by the nickname. “Whoever heard of a man single-handedly killing a high dragon?”

“His cousin single-handedly killed an Archdemon, the way the stories go. Perhaps improbability runs in the family?”

Dieter shuddered. Like Varric, he hadn't been entirely sure what to make of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden when he had been briefly introduced to her on his way to Cumberland via Vigil's Keep, only that she frightened the hell out of him on a sublimal level. She'd worn her power openly, unlike Hawke; her office had crackled with static the moment he had stepped in, the temperature around her chillier by several degrees, and Maker, her _eyes_... there was a wildness in her eyes that warred constantly with their wisdom. On hindsight, in that regard, she did rather remind him of Hawke. Perhaps it was a bloodline trait. But he could fully believe that she'd killed the Archdemon by herself.

“Maybe.”

“Do you seriously think that someone who killed an Archdemon would have asked Irving to bring you here for no other reason than that you were at the top of your class? Not that _that_ had to be any small feat, of course.”

Dieter scowled. “I'm not stupid, Herr Tethras. It's also obvious now to me – not that I knew of this – that I seem to resemble a friend of yours. Yours, Hawke's, Hawke's brother, and that angry looking carrot-headed lady who accosted me near the guest quarters. The one who looks like she's sucking on a lemon.” Whoever the heavily armored woman was, she had almost been as frightening as the Warden-Commander. Almost.

“Guard Captain Aveline? You just need to get to know her better,” Varric grinned slyly. “It'll take some doing. Probably give or take a decade or so. But do go on.”

“I don't know who that might be. The Wardens have to stand apart from politics. But I don't think that the Warden-Commanders are beyond nudging things along now and then. I think,” Dieter added confidently, as Varric remained silent, “Hawke probably knew my father, or my uncle or some relative of mine, who was also a mage, and who got himself killed by the templars. So the Warden-Commander must have sent me here as some sort of living reminder. I wouldn't put dramatics beyond her.”

“The templars weren't what got your father,” Varric said wryly, and the colorful dwarf seemed _saddened_ , even, by the memory. “But that's not a story for me to tell.”

Varric's abrupt reticence definitely explained the strange dwarf's presence. As Dieter had thought, like the Guard Captain, Varric was probably one of Hawke's circle of close friends or allies. People who would have known Dieter's father. Varric had probably simply come back to see the resemblance for himself.

“A lot of mages died during the Catalyst. He was one of them?” At Varric's careful nod, Dieter leaned back on both of his palms, glancing up at the even, stone ceiling. “I guess that had to be it. Was it... was it quick?”

“Yeah.” It was Varric's turn to stare into the flames. “It was quick.”

“That's good.” Dieter had never known his father, and he had no memories of his mother. Still, whoever his father had been, he had _had_ to have been someone... good, perhaps? Varric certainly seemed to remember him fondly. “Is there a, um, grave? I'll like to pay my respects.”

“No,” Varric seemed startled by the question. “There isn't one. A lot of people died in the Catalyst. If you're looking to put flowers at a memorial, there's one where the Chantry used to be.”

Varric was evading the question, Dieter sensed, but he supposed it wasn't entirely unusual. The Anderfels had its share of brutal wars; he'd seen the occasional monument on his way out of Weisshaupt, slabs of worn rock smoothed by time, standing guard over empty fields. “What was his name?”

“Funny thing, that.” Varric said, after a long pause, “I think now that we probably never knew it. He was on the run at the time, and nicknames probably just turned into habit. I called him Blondie.”

“Creative, no doubt,” Dieter said, disappointed all over again. “Was he a good man?”

“Nobody's perfect. I think that he tried, most of the time.”

Dieter supposed that he could be content with that. “Were you here during the Catalyst?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that you were,” Dieter had to grin as Varric's broad features crinkled with amusement. “Whenever the stories see fit to talk about Hawke's companions, there's a dwarf with a big crossbow who usually gets mentioned.”

“Bianca is so flattered,” Varric patted the stock of the crossbow at his back. “I was there. It was a bad business all around. No good choices.”

“I heard that rogue apostates destroyed the Chantry. Or that the templars did, in secret. The way that the Circles tell it, the templars tried to kill every mage for something they never did. So what actually happened?” Dieter asked, curious enough that he folded his hands back into his lap, leaning forward.

“Before I answer that, what do _you_ think about the Catalyst?”

“That it was necessary,” Dieter said promptly. “But that the deaths should have been avoided. The symbol had to go. But there had to have been people caught in the blast who were utterly innocent. I've been walking the Deep Roads since I was sixteen,” Dieter added testily, when Varric raised both eyebrows, “I have some ability at healing magic. In Weisshaupt, it's considered a gift. Once, an emissary brought down a molten rockfall on our party. Only three of us made it out. The rest... probably took a long time to die.”

“You're a Warden? At your age?”

“I'm _not_ a _child_. I didn't undertake the Joining. I would have, if the Warden-Commanders and the First Warden didn't decide that the mage Wardens could start to take sides if they wanted.”

“Wonder what brought that on,” Varric mused.

Still somewhat irritated by the 'at your age' comment, Dieter retorted, “The runes of negation are causing a slaughter. What about 'common humanity'?”

“Somehow, Wonderboy,” Varric said wryly, “Call me jaded, but I really very much doubt that _that's_ really it. As to what happened that day... I think all the stories you've ever heard probably have a kernel of truth within them somewhere.”

“Even the one where Hawke dropped down out of the sky in the form of a dragon and ate the Knight-Commander? I've always wondered about that one.”

“There's really a...?” Varric chuckled when Dieter grinned at him, unable to hold a straight face. “You're not a bad sort, I think.” He sobered quickly, however, as he looked back into the fireplace. “But you shouldn't be here.”

III.

Despite Irving's statement that they weren't going to remain in Kirkwall, the days dragged on into a week, and they weren't even allowed out of the Keep without an armed escort. Even within the Keep, there always seemed to be a Hunter or a guardsman within sight, following them around, and unnerved by the continuous military presence, the others tended to either huddle around Irving or keep to themselves within the guest quarters.

Heartily bored, Dieter took to practising his invisibility spells. The training he had received in Weisshaupt was survival-focused, with an emphasis towards defensive spells and healing – Wardens operated as a cohesive unit in the Deep Roads, and after having a Warden die on him on his third patrol, choking on his own blood and studded with darkspawn arrows, the spark of life within him slipping too quickly for Dieter's magic to net, he'd held less interest in flashy offensive spells.

Keeping the invisibility spell running was good exercise. Dieter usually snuck out of the guest quarters after lunch, careful not to walk into anyone, and took to exploring the Keep. Much of it wasn't open to the general public, and he didn't know any spells for unlocking doors or phasing through walls, so the lustre of exploring faded quickly. His spell wouldn't hold muster under the continuous snowfall, so leaving the Keep without getting caught and landing Irving into trouble, thereby possibly sabotaging their diplomatic mission, was also off the cards.

In the end, he spent most of his time sneaking into the throne room whenever Hawke held court. Most of the disputes and matters that the noblemen brought before their Viscount were petty problems that Hawke didn't bother to hide his impatience for. Kirkwall had a reputably fair and advanced system of courts that took care of legal disputes, and so only matters involving how the city was run were referred to its Viscount. Which seemed to be mostly, mind-numbingly boring. Dieter couldn't quite see why Hawke clung to his current life. A mage as powerful and as famous as Hawke should be at the forefront of history, not seated for hours in a freezing throne room, meting decisions on mundane problems.

Now and then, however, there were more colorful figures, with more interesting problems. The Guard Captain Aveline, for example, always had the best of stories, and today, after a pair of sniveling noblemen were ordered out, a dainty elf stepped lightly past into the chamber, the tattoos on her face and the make of her mail, vest and britches marking her out as a Dalish Keeper.

“Merrill.” Hawke greeted her, as she walked forward up the steps to the throne. “Is something wrong at the elvhen quarter?”

“Nothing, _lethallin_ ,” Merrill smiled gently. “I wish you'd told me about your guest. Varric mentioned it to me yesterday, at the Hanged Man, or I'll never have known.”

Hawke glanced around, then with a gesture, the guards in the throne room filed out, closing the door behind them. Blast. Dieter hid behind one of the columns and concentrated on upkeeping his spell. “It wasn't important.”

“Wasn't it?” Merrill asked, folding her arms, though her smile remained. “You've been so lonely.”

“Don't go into this again,” Hawke groaned, briefly rubbing his gloved palm over his face. “It's not like I've been _celibate_.”

“It's not the same.” Merrill had walked up to the throne, and had her hand sunk into one wolf's fur-covered shoulder. “I miss him too.”

“You? The both of you argued all the time. Or rather, he was arguing, and you would ignore him. It used to drive him crazy.” There was a pause, then Hawke added, with a touch of deep bitterness, “Crazier.”

“Friends can argue. I still get letters from Fenris, you know.” Merrill leaned against the back of the throne, the look in her large, green eyes wistful and distant. “You should come by the quarter when the snow lets up a little. We can have tea. You could bring your new friend. He's probably rather cold standing over there by himself.”

Hawke looked up sharply, even as Dieter scrambled to check his spell. It was still in place – Hawke's piercing stare passed over him, glancing away, and Merrill laughed, pointing right at him. “He's over there, Hawke. It's not a bad weave, but he didn't think to check his shadow.”

Caught, Dieter dropped the spell, plastering a placating expression on his face. “Uh. I'm sorry?”

Hawke frowned at him for a heartbeat, then he sighed, and even _smiled_ , even if the curl to his mouth was faint and tired. “Are you?”

“I might be?” Dieter tried his best, puppyish smile. “Your Excellency.”

“He's _so_ cute. Aren't you going to keep him?” Merrill asked Hawke brightly, and Hawke's smile faded quickly into a scowl, even as Dieter blinked.

“Why is it that after more than a _decade_ you still say the first thing that jumps into your mind?”

“Varric calls it honesty, I don't see what's wrong with it,” Merrill said primly. “Anyway, I'm actually here to visit Aveline and her family. One of them's down with a bit of a cold, and my clan always swore by its soup.” So saying, the Keeper patted Hawke again by his shoulder, nodded over at Dieter, and let herself out of the throne room, leaving the both of them alone.

“How long have you been there?” Hawke asked, his expression unreadable.

“Since the argument about some mother's aunt's sister's shares in some sort of consortium and the hereditary right of use of some stream,” Dieter hazarded. “Gripping stuff. They should write a book.”

Hawke actually chuckled, rising a little stiffly from the throne and stretching languidly before picking up his bladed staff. “Lord Rufus and Lord Langton own wheat farms beyond Kirkwall, and have a majority share of the wheat import market in Kirkwall. Unfortunately, listening to their petty border disputes and pitting them against each other comes hand in hand with keeping the price of flour low.”

“As compared to smacking them around until they learn some sense?”

“Don't tempt me,” Hawke said wryly, “Would you like to have dinner?”

Hawke's tone was casual, and his posture loose, but his expressive amber eyes were narrowed and intense. Swallowing, his throat a little dry, Dieter nodded. “Uh. Dinner would be great. Ser.” He probably shouldn't read too much into things, but Maker, Hawke was _handsome_ when he smiled like that, warm and pleased, eyes crinkling at the edges; a character out of history, powerful and charismatic, was asking him over for dinner. It was difficult not to feel gratified, flattered. Even more difficult to refuse.

“This way, then.”

IV.

One dinner turned into two, and then became a regular occurrence. Hawke lived in the Keep, though apparently he had estates in Hightown, to which Hawke referred to briefly and self-deprecatingly as the place where he and his brother went to, whenever they wanted to 'hide' from 'everything else' ( _there's a good wine cellar, and a decent larder, but blast it all if Aveline always knows how to dig us out_ ). When Dieter had shyly asked if Hawke was married, or if he had children, the Viscount had only chuckled and shook his head, his amber eyes growing briefly distant. It seemed that Merrill was right in at least one count.

Off the throne, Hawke was a pleasant man, always quick with a touch of wry, understated humor, and for all that he had seemed narrow-minded upon Dieter's first impression, he quickly proved otherwise. It was apparent that Hawke took his responsibility to Kirkwall very seriously – and that he had no real interest in the rest of Thedas save where trade routes or hostilities against Kirkwall were involved.

It was a difficult idea for Dieter to swallow. Across Thedas a long and savage war was being fought, against people born with a spark of magic, and he couldn't really understand why any mage could choose to stand aloof from it, out of survival if anything else. Hawke's disinterest was galling, _frustrating_ , and all the more aggravating because it was perfectly reasonable.

“I held a vote,” Hawke said, after Dieter's latest attempt to try to talk Hawke into a concession over wine. “Representatives from various districts, the Merchant Guild, the elvhen quarter, the guards, the Hunters and other interest groups. The vote was almost unanimous for neutrality.”

“You control all of those factions,” Dieter was quick to point out. “Varric runs the Merchant Guild, Merrill is _hahren_ , Aveline is Captain of the Guard, and your brother commands the Hunters. I wouldn't be surprised if you personally knew the leaders of all of the other factions as well.”

“They're my friends, not my minions,” Hawke said, though he smiled faintly, draining the wine in his glass. Hawke had good taste in wine, and though Dieter didn't quite have a preference for it, by the third glass, Hawke was always considerably mellower. As Dieter poured for them both, he murmured, “You hold your wine well.”

“Of course.” Dieter was thankful that Hawke, at least, hadn't insultingly tried to suggest that he was too young to drink. “I'm Anders. Of course I can drink.”

The sound of Hawke's wineglass shattering on the stone was loud even over the crackle from the fireplace. “You're _what_...?”

Hawke was visibly pale again, like the first time he had ever seen Dieter's face, and there was a palsy in his frozen fingers that hadn't been there before. Puzzled and disturbed, Dieter said, slowly, “An _Anders_. That's what people from the Anderfels are called. Don't you know? I mean, I don't know either of my parents, but I was sent to Weisshaupt to train once I was old enough to survive the journey, and my tutors always said that I had to have had at least one parent who had Anders blood.”

“Don't say that again,” Hawke's tone was deadly quiet, his expression a blank mask as his hands clenched tight. “Leave me.” As Dieter blinked, startled and not a little hurt by the brusque dismissal, Hawke's mouth curled into a grimace of a brittle smile that fell away as quickly as the attempt had begun, and he bit out a harsh, “Please.”

“All right,” Dieter rose from the chair, setting down the wine glass. “Good night, your Excellency.” Hawke had insisted that he drop all honorifics during their first dinner, and Dieter hadn't intended that to sound as cold as it emerged, but Hawke didn't seem to notice, staring down at his own hands, still and unmoving even when Dieter walked past him, picking his way over the glass.

Dieter was ~~disappointed~~ unsurprised when he wasn't invited for the next night's dinner, spending it eating in an awkward silence in the guest quarters instead, as the others stared at him and murmured among themselves. After it all, he caught Irving alone in the drawing room and tried to apologize without really knowing what he was apologizing for, stumbling over his own words. “I hope I haven't done any harm to our purpose,” he concluded, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robes and trying not to stare at his own feet. “I'm not even sure why he was offended.”

“No, no.” Irving patted him on a shoulder, creakily, the old man bundled up in furs and layers of robes, even with the fireplace roaring behind him. “I'm close to manoeuvring him into a concession, I think. That hasn't changed.”

“You knew my father as well, didn't you?” Dieter asked, frowning. Irving had seemed _too_ confident all this while, even though Hawke's public attitude towards Irving and the rest of the Archon's delegates was neutral at best, frosty at worst. It rubbed off on Carver and the Hunters, and besides, everyone else in the Keep had to know why they were there. And if Hawke was right, the notion of bringing Kirkwall into a war that wasn't of its concern was thoroughly unpopular. Everywhere any of them went, they were eyed with suspicion.

Irving hesitated for a moment, then he sighed. “Once, he was one of the charges under my care, in the Circle at Lake Calenhad. Before the Catalyst.” A ghost of a smile crossed Irving's wrinkled mouth. “He held the record – one that was still standing as at the Catalyst – of the most number of successful escape attempts. He used to drive Greagoir and the other templars crazy. It took quite a lot of talking to keep them from making him Tranquil. It helped that they thought him harmless – his talent was in healing magic.”

“Ah.” Dieter said, curiosity quickly replacing his uneasy, vague sense of personal failure. “Hawke and his friends refused to talk much about him, even when I asked. They wouldn't even tell me his name. Apparently they didn't know it.”

“I doubt that they would. He told me his name once, when he was taken to Lake Calenhad from the Anderfels Circle; it seemed that he was thoroughly unmanageable there, as well.” Irving chuckled fondly, as though at the memory. “It was one of those old Anderfels names, in your High Tongue.”

“Unpronounceable,” Dieter commiserated, if with a grin. “So what did you call him?”

“He was fast friends with one of the Enchanters, Karl Thekla. It was Karl who took to calling him 'Anders', because nobody could pronounce his real name, and it fell into common use.” Irving was watching him carefully, thoughtfully.

Dieter sucked in a deep breath. That explained Hawke's violent reaction, at least. “And the Warden-Commander knew him?”

“She did. After his seventh escape, he ran into the Warden-Commander, who recruited him into the Wardens, using their right of conscription. He was assigned to Vigil's Keep, for a time.”

“Is there anything else that the both of you haven't told me?” That sounded more petulant than injured, but Dieter folded his arms, increasingly annoyed, all the same. He wasn't one for politics, brought up as he was in a fortress dedicated to battling darkspawn, and he didn't appreciate being used as a pawn, all unknowing. The mage cause _needed_ Kirkwall and Hawke, but Dieter was beginning to dislike the lengths that desperation seemed to have pushed Irving to.

Irving stared at him, his lips moving silently for a long, strained silence, then he said, quietly, “Sometimes knowledge bears bitter fruit.”

“I've had enough with all the dire warnings,” Dieter allowed a hint of his irritation to creep into his tone. “Don't I deserve to know what I've been dragged into?”

“Very well,” Irving said heavily. “Sit down. I'll tell you all that I know.”

V.

The snowfall stopped early next morning, which was a relief. Dieter hadn't been able to sleep well, consumed as he was by warring emotions, warring thoughts; second-hand guilt against a second-hand knot of pride that he wasn't so sure that he wanted to look closely at, and over it all, an ugly sort of resentment that he was only partly certain that he should have outgrown by now. His father had done something unforgivable – half the street had been caught up in the shockwave and the shrapnel from the Chantry blast – and yet, by doing so, he had changed the world.

Dieter also hadn't been sure what to think about the clear fact that his father had been more or less written out of all the popular accounts of the Catalyst that had circulated out of Kirkwall. No single apostate was mentioned, and of those that were, the descriptions varied, and the names were never consistent. He suspected Hawke's hand in this, or at least, Varric's – it looked like the dwarf's style. Irving himself had only learned the truth from the Warden-Commander, who had learned it herself from Hawke, when she had encountered him briefly during the half-year that the Champion had disappeared from Kirkwall, presumably to tie up loose ends. He had returned afterwards to take up the Viscount's throne, just before Starkhaven attacked, and had remained ever since.

Slipping quietly into his clothes, Dieter scribbled a brief note on a spare scrap of paper that he located in the drawer of the side table by the guest bed, made himself invisible and crept through the guest quarters, making his way to the servants' wing. The Keep was beginning to wake up, the kitchen bustling, and no one noticed when Dieter quietly purloined a loaf of bread and some cheese and sneaked out through the tradesmen's entrance.

He dropped the spell once he was out of Hightown, heading towards Lowtown with a spring in his step, eating his breakfast as he went. Dieter had no idea where he was going in particular, and he was fairly sure that Irving would be Displeased at the _Gone walking, don't worry_ note. Maybe he should have been more specific, but it wasn't as though he _did_ anything all day in the Keep, and besides, he was curious about Hawke's city. It was easy for someone sitting on the top of a pyramid to decide that the lower levels were happy about it.

He'd intended to explore and keep to himself once he descended the wide stairway to Lowtown, but he was quickly attracted to an orange flare of light against the sandstone walls of an enclave to his right. A pair of mages were talking - _laughing_ \- with gathered residents, and as Dieter watched in astonishment, another controlled fireball was splashed onto a snowbank. They were digging out the houses, with _magic_ , and the citizens were acting as though the spectacle was absolutely normal. Sweet Andraste, just a few paces away, beyond the archway into the enclave, children were playing in the snow, building a fort and packing it with snowballs.

Fascinated, he didn't think to hide, and abruptly, one of the mages looked up, a greying woman with a quick smile, who beckoned at him. Self-consciously, Dieter approached, trudging his way through muddy snow to the enclave. “Hello. My name's Allara, and this,” she gestured at the male and even more elderly elvhen mage shivering behind her, “Is Mal. Are you new here? I did hear that we processed a ship yesterday.”

“I'm new,” Dieter said, relieved at the out, then before he could stop himself, added, “Can I help? I know some fire spells.”

“Thank Andraste,” Mal said fervently and nasally, sneezing. “I'm so sorry, Allara.”

“No, Mal, you'd best go back and have a lie down. The snow's been heavier than usual,” Allara told Dieter apologetically, “All available teams are spread thin. Mal here thought it'd be a good idea to venture out in his condition.”

“I know some healing magic,” Dieter ventured, “But nothing cures a cold like rest.”

“Don't waste it on me,” Mal shook his head, “If you're a healer, that's a blessing – Andraste knows what might have happened over the past three days when nobody could get in or out of the Gallows without freezing over. I'll go back. What was your name again, serah?”

“It's...” Dieter hesitated for a moment, then decided that it wasn't as though he had anything to hide. “I'm Dieter.”

“Pleased.” Mal shook his hand, if limply, and began to head out of the enclave.

Dieter had never used fireballs against anything but practice targets or darkspawn before, but Allara was an old hand at it, and the snow in the enclave cleared quickly. It was still slow, exhausting work, but Dieter was grateful for it, as they moved on to the next buried enclave. The grateful residents had managed to dig out one of the houses on their own, one which held a sickly child. A touch of magic quickly took care of her fever, and hot broth and blankets would remedy the rest of it. Dieter hadn't been sure how to handle the parents' effusive thanks, embarrassed, and had been grateful for Allara's presence as she deftly excused them both to get back to clearing the snow drifts.

At least this sort of work, however menial, meant that he wasn't sneaking around the Keep, bored and hoping to get a glimpse of Hawke, feeding the slow-burn of his growing, inadvisable infatuation. That had been why Hawke's dismissal had _hurt_ like it did. Hawke was everything that Dieter hoped to be, smart, confident, charming, powerful and charismatic, and it didn't hurt that he was also handsome and a household name. He'd been taking Hawke's attentions for granted, when he shouldn't have been.

Dieter had been trying so hard to treat the dinners as something casual. Hawke obviously wasn't asking him for dinner because he found Dieter interesting – he was doing it because he knew Dieter's father, and Dieter might be young yet by the ways of the world, but one couldn't react like Hawke did, in the throne room and in the dining chamber, without there being an unhealthy helping of guilt, somewhere. Hawke had sided with the templars. Dieter's father had been the one who had blown up the Chantry. Put that way, Dieter was fairly sure that either Hawke had allowed Dieter's father to be executed, or he had done it himself. Thinking over his impression of Hawke to date, Dieter had a suspicion that it was the latter. If there was dirty work to be done, Hawke wouldn't shy from it.

If Dieter were a stronger, better person, he would have stayed away from it all, rather than taking advantage of his resemblance to his father and Hawke's guilt to enjoy Hawke's company. What had happened at their last dinner would have happened eventually, and it was Dieter's fault that he'd torn open all of Hawke's old wounds, however inadvertently.

“Where are you from?” Allara was asking, as they greeted the people at the second Lowtown enclave, organising them to the side and out of range.

“The Anderfels.”

“You're a long way from home,” Allara smiled at him. “I'm from Nevarra, myself. I got tired of the war and drifted here. What about you?”

“I'm just visiting.” Dieter said, somewhat evasively, but Allara merely chuckled.

“No, you're still young, it's good that you're here, you _should_ see Kirkwall. You're still young enough to think that war is the only solution. That it's the best solution. That people dying in the course of war is acceptable, that the ends justify the means. Kirkwall might change your mind-” Allara abruptly stiffened, then she smiled thinly, looking away. “Forgive me. You weren't even assigned to one of the teams, you came here to help, and I've... forgive me.”

“Don't think more about it. It's good to listen to other opinions,” Dieter said uncomfortably, his forced attempt to sound light brittle to his own ears. “Um. Are most of the mages here, well, um-”

“Refugees from the war? Mostly. We tend to be old and tired,” Allara said wryly, though she managed a smile. “I'm so sorry. I haven't been... it's just that, I don't know if you've heard, but Archon Irving is in the city. Everyone at the Gallows is on edge. The Archon's never come in person to speak to the Viscount before. Usually, the Viscount just turns away all the petitioners from the Archon or the Divine. This time, he actually called Emerson – that's the First Enchanter... I mean, the Archmage, that's the politically correct term now, isn't it – to the Keep, along with Carver Hawke and the other faction leaders, for a vote. Everyone's worried. Nobody wants the war.”

Dieter frowned, unnerved by the thread of anxious fear in Allara's tone. “Kirkwall's dealt with sieges before. It'll be fine.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” Allara sighed, as they melted down the snow piled along the doorways, people around them quick with buckets and rags to catch the run-off. “I don't know if you've seen Cumberland. Or Ghislain, or Hunter Fell, the cities held by the Circles, or whatever they're calling themselves of late. They're turning into Tevinter cities. Blood magic runs rampant, there's no restriction on the mages other than those put in place by the Archmages, and they tend to be tenuous. Especially where the mages are growing desperate.”

“Cumberland wasn't that bad.” Dieter said, startled. “It was just like any other city.”

“You're a healer,” Allara said, after a pause, as though she was trying to think of a way to explain it to him. “If the word got out in Kirkwall, you'll be one of the most popular mages in the city. Healers are rare here – they're usually too valuable to be let out of the war effort. People will approach you in the street for help. You won't have that in Cumberland, or the other cities. I'm not explaining it very well, am I?”

“By your words, Kirkwall is normal, and the rest of Thedas is insane?” Dieter tried a smile, and Allara laughed, startled.

“Well. Yes. Kirkwall is how things _should_ be. And I'm afraid that if the Viscount decides to take sides, we'll lose this. If he opens the borders to the Archon's forces, to blood mages, or mages just used to running roughshod over their cities, we'll lose everything that we've worked for.”

Dieter decided not to point out that 'everything' that the Kirkwall mages seemed to have worked for appeared to be free snow-digging and healing services. “I don't think it'll be that bad. If anything, the Viscount won't allow it.”

“It doesn't take much to lose trust.” Allara smiled and bowed as they left the enclave to waves and effusive thanks. “The Chantry came for Kirkwall, twice. Each time, many of the people you've met today took up arms on our behalf. Not out of fear, or for coin, but because they felt that we were one of them. That it was the _right_ thing to do. Even when the siege grew long, even when the city began to starve.” Allara wiped her hands down on her robes. “Come on. We'll help clear out the market square, then we should get something to eat. And you can get to know some of the others rather than listen to an old woman nag and natter.”

“The other mages, are they all, uh-”

“Old?” Allara cracked a toothy grin. “I know that you're thinking that, young man. And yes. Many of us are... a little more advanced, in years. Not all.”

“Good. So there won't be any, 'my fireball is bigger than yours' sort of impromptu competition?”

“I lived in the Hunter Fell Circle for all my life before the war. Sometimes I miss that. Even when the library happens to be on fire,” Allara chuckled, a little wistfully. “There are younger mages, but you'll be disappointed. Anyone out in this weather is here to work.”

Despite Allara's words, there weren't actually any mages working to clear out the market square and melt down the dangerous ice buildup on stairs and steps who were younger than forty winters at the least, and as Dieter had suspected, most of them were in Kirkwall because they were tired of the revolution. The rest had already been in Kirkwall to begin with, and had somehow survived the Purge. His arrival was treated with curiosity and some amusement. It seemed that it was normal for mages of his age to pass through Kirkwall, but no one was expecting him to stay. Younger mages, particularly those who had yet to pass their Harrowing before the Circles rose up against the Chantry, were far more invested in the war than older mages who had long accepted the status quo.

All of them were unapologetically suspicious of Irving, and as most of them had already seen their share of the war, trying to argue ideology seemed pointless. He couldn't help but feel sad for them, for hiding in Kirkwall and pretending that a war that would decide the rights and fate of all mages no longer affected them. Many of the mages had haunted eyes, like they'd seen too much horror, or too much death, until their principles and nerve had broken all the way down, until there was no option left but flight. Dieter had only been involved in a couple of skirmishes to date with roving Chantry patrols, and he hadn't stayed in any Circles-held city for very long on his way to Cumberland. He didn't know if Allara was exaggerating. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know that she was right.

It was late afternoon by the time the ice frozen onto the stone steps in Lowtown were melted away and mopped up, and the mages were working in shifts. The latest shift was excited when it arrived – it seemed that the Viscount was on his way from working his own shift in Darktown. Visibly, all the mages seemed cheered, as they crowded around the new shift's mages, asking for details, or looking around as though expecting Hawke to stroll out from an alley at any moment.

Dieter took the opportunity to slip away. He didn't want to face Hawke right at this moment.

VI.

Diamondback was a game with far too many arbitrary rules. Dieter wasn't sure what to make of a game that sanctioned lying, but he'd learned how to play in Weisshaupt, where the stakes – latrine duties, or worse, additional Deep Roads patrols – were somewhat more considerable than the loss of some borrowed coin, and he could hold his own. No one in the latest tavern that he'd meandered into were any match for the Weisshaupt Wardens, just like the other two taverns that he'd been thrown out of, and this time, he was careful to use most of the coin to buy everyone a drink rather than pocket it for himself.

It wasn't as though he needed coin, anyway. But playing a stupid game for the sake of nothing at all, with people who weren't Wardens and yet clearly didn't give a rat's arse about the staff slanted across his back, was a weird sort of freedom in and of itself, a strange, gratifying confluence. The future should be like this, Dieter decided, a little tipsy on watered-down sour beer with what he hoped weren't rat's droppings. Being a mage could just be like being a cobbler, or a smith or a merchant. Quietly, secretly, Kirkwall had become what the Chantry feared, what some of the Circles mages that leaned towards a Tevinter system of government or a Rivaini system of tithing didn't want. Here, being a mage didn't deserve extra respect, and magic didn't inspire adulation, fear or hatred. It was a tool. Having magic was considered perfectly _normal_ , like wearing a sword at one's belt or a bow at one's back.

Drunk on horrific beer and holding a bad hand of cards while trying to remember what his partner's trump was, Dieter realized, with an inexorable culmination of perfect logic, that he had just stumbled on a future worth fighting for.

Overwhelmed, he folded, bought another round of drinks with the last of his coin, and excused himself stumbling out of the tavern into the alley beside it, leaning against the filthy wall and taking in deep breaths of the acrid stench of refuse and stale human piss. His head felt like it was stuffed full of wool, and his eyes were stinging, and someone he couldn't see had dragged him forward, sharply enough that he lost balance and stumbled against a coarse tunic with a yelp.

“Saw you in the tavern,” the stranger murmured, “Bit young, aren't you?”

“I'm old enough,” Dieter scowled, and hoped he wasn't slurring his words. He could see the stranger's teeth flash white, in amusement, and then to his astonishment he was being shoved up against the wall, and the stranger's tongue was pushing into his _mouth_ , sour with the taste of piss-poor beer and Maker knew what else. Shocked, Dieter froze, stock solid until the stranger pulled away, palms pressed to either side of the wall beside Dieter's head.

“Liked that?” The stranger growled, and Dieter had to wrinkle his nose. “I've a room upstairs, if you're old enough for a bit of rough.”

“... you have no idea what you just pulled into an alley,” Dieter said slowly, laughter warring with outrage. Laughter won out, unfortunately, and what little light there was filtering from the torches at the street showed him that the man's crooked grin had faltered.

“A dumb brat, far out of his element?” the stranger snapped, and he was drunk enough that Dieter could see the punch coming from miles away. He ducked, darting to the side as the stranger cracked his fist against the wall with an oath, then blocked the next swing, locked his wrist the way he'd been taught in Weisshaupt, and punched his attacker in the belly, putting his weight behind it. The man fell as though he'd been poleaxed, retching, and in disgust, Dieter stepped carefully out of range.

“I'll be careful if I were you.” Dieter suggested, backing slowly out of the alley, and then he sighed as the man scrambled up, drawing a dagger. “Please don't be predictable. I'm tipsy and my aim will be off. I might singe more than your eyebrows.”

“I suggest that you do as he says,” Hawke said, deadly calm, behind Dieter, and the man stumbled to a halt, let out a squawk of fear, and scrambled away in the opposite direction, clutching at his stomach and wheezing.

Dieter wasn't sure if turning around was a good idea, if a torch backlit vision of Hawke had sent a randy drunk fleeing like he'd just seen the very worst of his nightmares. He intended an awkward greeting, and instead, it emerged as, “He was harmless.”

“And if he had friends?” Hawke's voice was closer, so close that any more and it'd be tickling the back of his neck, and the scent of fire and lightning was growing thick even over the stench of the alley. Dieter felt goosebumps on his arms, and he had to fight not to shiver; the wolf had awakened from its throne and it was _angry_.

“I've fought darkspawn.”

“With Wardens at your back and before you, shielding you. You're the healer of the party, you wouldn't have been anywhere else.”

“Every recruit learns how to defend himself. Regardless of whether he has magic.” Dieter said, drunk enough to be difficult about it. “I don't think-”

He sucked in the rest of his words as gloved hands closed over his shoulders, and for the second time that night he was being shoved up against a filthy wall; Hawke tasted _clean_ and Dieter couldn't believe that this was really happening and it felt like Hawke was trying to kill him, he couldn't breathe, his heart seemed to have stopped, his brain had just turned into putty and he was moaning and rubbing himself against Hawke's spiky armor at every little suck on his lip and on his tongue, every teasing flick against his teeth and... and Hawke was pulling back, looking punch-drunk and dazed like _he_ was the one who'd just received the best kiss of his life. Dieter clenched his hands into fists over the wolf's fur on Hawke's shoulders. “Do that again,” he pleaded.

“That wasn't _right_ , you're so _young_ ,” Hawke gasped, like a drowning man struggling to breathe, then he clapped his gloved hand hastily over Dieter's mouth when Dieter growled and tried to press forward, holding Dieter easily against the wall until he stopped struggling. Maker, for a mage, Hawke was _strong_. When Dieter calmed down, his eyes narrowed, furious, Hawke was watching him soberly. “And it wasn't meant for you.”

The world seemed to bottom out as Dieter's vision spotted briefly, first from fury, then sheer outrage, then a grim sense of resignation. Carefully, he pulled out of Hawke's grip, the cold twist in his chest both ugly and final. “You, my father, were you both...?”

“Yes.” The whispered word sounded like it had been dragged out from Hawke, rough with pain.

“Did you kill him yourself? By your own hand?”

Hawke straightened up, to his full height, and he had an inch or so on Dieter, right now, even though Dieter still outgrew his clothes on a regular basis. Maybe this was why the drunk had gone running. In Hawke's expressive eyes there was only a black emptiness, beyond despair. “I did.”

“After you found out what he did?”

“No. I sided with the templars and the guard, to keep order. The templars let me decide what to do with him. I let him go – earning half a decade of Starkhaven enmity with it – and I found him waiting for us at the Gallows. He attacked, I killed him.” Hawke's tone was flat now, eerily neutral.

“As simple as that.” Dieter growled. “Someone gets in your way, and he dies?”

It wasn't a fair statement – Hawke stepped back, as though slapped, then Dieter was pinned to the wall again and the wolf was _snarling_. “How would you know? You weren't _there_! We called for the mages to surrender and they _wouldn't_ , why would they, they thought that we were going to kill every last one of them, every woman and child! And there he was, still acting the martyr, when it was by _his_ act that every boy with a blade through his heart and every girl in her death throes on the stone were there and...” Hawke took a deep breath. “ _You weren't there._ ”

“The templars chose to do all of that,” Dieter insisted numbly. “They didn't have to exercise the Rite.”

“A blood mage murdered my mother. A blood mage nearly killed my brother. I've fought my share of out-of-control mages ever since I first came to Kirkwall. An out-of-control _Circle_ didn't bear imagining. Or so I thought at that time. You think that I don't have regrets? I _do!_ You think that sometimes I don't wish that I could have done something differently? Some mages surrendered,” Hawke said bitterly.

“Those were the lucky ones. The rest... Orsino had gone mad, mad with grief and fear and... that's not what you wanted to know,” Hawke said, staring at him, the wildness in his eyes twisted painfully through with wounds that had never healed. “You wanted to know about Anders? He wanted to die. If the templars caught him, if he surrendered, he would have been made Tranquil, and he was more afraid of that than anything else in the world. So in the end, I just caved and gave him what he wanted.” Hawke had his hands pressed palms out against the stone, beside Dieter's shoulders, and his arms were shaking, his head bent as he took in a harsh, shaky breath. “I always did.”

Dieter couldn't think of anything to say, his mind a morass of confusion and heartache. Hawke's pain was too raw, too damning; he had no idea how Hawke could have picked himself back up again, done all that he had, continued walking forward. Tentatively, he stepped forward and pulled Hawke gently up against him, pressing his cold cheek against Hawke's neck, waiting as muscle clenched up, then the Viscount of Kirkwall was shaking against him, silently, and crushing him close, his breaths in wet, wrenching staccatos.

He didn't know how long they stood there in the alley like that, Hawke lost in old grief and Dieter just waiting it out, stroking the arch of Hawke's back and listening to the heartbeat of the Kirkwall's night, of some freezing whores plying their trade in another alley, close by, of some drunken song in the distant, the chorus hiccuped and skipping, some distant scream, raised voices around the corner, the tread of the night's guard patrol.

Eventually, Hawke's hands slipped up to his arms, squeezing tight, then the Viscount was pulling away, his expression unreadable. “Let's get you back to the Keep.”

Back to the Keep? Irving would be waiting for them, Dieter knew, everyone would be, Hawke was trying to hide it but his eyes were so tired, so _haunted_ , even if the redness would probably fade by the time they walked back, it'd be obvious with Dieter following at his heels like a Maker-damned puppy, he was still pleasantly tipsy and he couldn't face the others like this, still scraped raw by Hawke's words, wondering if all of them had known. “I... uh, I'll rather not, I'll buy a room, I'll come back. In the morning. Promise.”

He wished he hadn't stuttered so much. Hawke's eyebrow was arching upwards. “You won't be _safe_ in one of these taverns,” he said, as though that was obvious.

“I've slept in the Deep Roads. I know how to stay alert.”

Hawke glared at him, his mouth drawn into a thin line, and Dieter tried to fold his arms in defiance, and ended up clutching at his elbows instead. Still, he held his ground, and eventually, Hawke let out a deep, harsh sigh. “Three places. Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. My estates in Hightown. Merrill's house in the elvhen quarter.”

Dieter's heart skipped a little faster, even as he forced himself to hold his tongue and _think_. If he chose Hawke's estate, he _knew_ that Hawke would go with him. Hawke would insist that he take a guest room, of course, but he'd have wine, a cellar, probably, and good wine made Hawke mellow. They could talk. They _would_ talk. And Dieter was in enough of a monster of a mood now to just try and fix things, or try and prove himself or do something similarly inadvisable and _young_ and... Hawke was broken enough at present to let him. He couldn't do that. It was fair to no one.

“Um. Which place is the closest to here?” he asked, knowing that it couldn't be Hightown.

Hawke glanced behind them, then up at the sky, thinking, and for a moment, Dieter thought that the Viscount seemed _disappointed_. _Good_ , he thought, too tired to feel triumph. “This is Skylark's Keg... the elvhen quarter is the closest.”

“We'll go there then, if it won't be a bother, or you can give me directions and-”

“I'll walk you,” Hawke decided, and Dieter swallowed his irritation. Save where darkspawn, the mage cause or the Warden-Commander's unsettling eyes were concerned, he wasn't the _follower_ sort, and Hawke's air of command was rather annoying, but he swallowed his retort before he could voice it.

“Thank you for your _time_ , your Excellency,” Dieter said instead, stiffly, and Hawke stared at him for a moment, as though startled at his tone, then the Viscount seemed to think better of commenting, inclining his head curtly instead and stepping out of the alley.

VII.

Merrill's 'house' was really a weird sort of communal space, a rectangular chamber with a big fireplace at one end, sectioned off by taut skins drawn between frames along the edges. From the structure of it, it looked like an old warehouse, converted lovingly into a place that radiated warmth and safety. It looked like what the Dalish would have built, perhaps a very long time ago, before they were driven into a nomadic life, and it was haphazardly decorated; a small statue of a halla stood at pride of place atop the fireplace, and there were tapestries, colorful candles, stacks of books at shelves in the left corner, quivers and bows and slender blades hung on the walls, and paintings by different hands with different ideas and levels of skill, in a sort of giant, inconsistent and uncoordinated fresco that ran over the walls.

The Dalish Keeper had been reading from a book to a group of young elves, barely out of childhood, when they had let themselves into her home, and she blinked at them, startled, before murmuring a quick word to her charges. They stood as one, with disappointed protests, but she chuckled and ruffled the hair of the closest, a tiny girl whose head was only half as high again as Dieter's chest.

“ _Aneth ara, lethallin_ ,” Merrill greeted Hawke, with a bright smile. “And to you as well. Please give me a moment, I need to walk the _da'len_ home.”

“I'll do it. Before I return to the Keep,” Hawke offered. “Dieter just wants another place to stay for the night.”

Some of the elves looked uncertain as Merrill nodded and ushered them to the door, but then the smallest of them abruptly burst out, “I heard that you can turn into a _dragon_.”

The girl beside him, probably a sister by the facial resemblance, hushed him quickly, but Hawke chuckled, flexing his gloved fingers, curling them into makeshift claws. “I _might_. If you watch carefully.”

“Really?” One of the other boys piped up, and soon the children were pestering Hawke for details of fang and scale as they followed him out of Merrill's home. Watching them pour out of the house, Dieter hid a smile.

“I don't actually have a spare bed,” Merrill said apologetically, “But I have a infirmary, and there's nobody sick right now and I've changed the sheets this week, so-”

“That'll be good. Thank you, milady Keeper.” Dieter cut in, feeling awkward. “If I'm going to be in the way, I'll go. We just don't need to... Hawke doesn't need to know.”

“Oh no, he _will_ know, and he'll fret, and then nobody will be happy because something will probably be on fire.” Merrill was bustling away, to the kitchen set near the fireplace, measuring tea leaves into a small iron kettle. “It's no trouble at all. And please don't use any honorifics, I feel most awkward, like you're angry with me or something. Tea?”

“I can't imagine him fretting.” Hawke, who always seemed so sure of himself? Never.

“He's very good at it. Sit down. Please.” Merrill showed him distractedly to the round table next to the shelves, then started moving books and scrawled sheaves of notes off the table. “Oh, I am so sorry, I usually, I mean, I have visitors, everyday, being the _hahren_ , but I usually just see people, over there.” She waved a hand vaguely at a sectioned square closer to the entrance.

“I'll help you clean up, in exchange for tea,” Dieter offered, hastening to help. Weisshaupt was a military installation, which meant that everything was meant to be kept neat and in their places. Dieter slotted books onto shelves, scooped the notes into a chest, and collected the quills into a disused pot, just as the kettle began to whistle.

Merrill poured tea for them both, and pushed forward a plate of sliced honey cake. “They're quite good. I didn't make them, they're from Rhia, after I helped with her baby.”

“Thank you.” Dieter didn't really remember eating dinner, and he was hungry. After a while, Merrill covered her mouth, as if to stifle a giggle, and brought another serving, as well as a cut of ham, a wedge of cheese and some cold, if fresh bread.

“I always have more food than I can eat here. It's for visitors, like you, and the others,” Merrill said, when he tried to apologize. “I teach the children how to read and write. Along with elvhen history, our songs, our stories, and _da'len_ are always hungry.”

“Kirkwall's elvhen quarter isn't really what I've seen before,” Dieter said, carefully edging away from being mentally labeled a child by one of Hawke's evidently trusted companions. “And the _hahren_ of the other places don't tend to be Keepers. I thought the Dalish kept to themselves.”

“There were many circumstances. Mostly involving Hawke,” Merrill smiled gently. “Hawke transformed the alienage along with the rest of Kirkwall that needed it. He asked me to stay as the _hahren_ and I accepted. My old clan has left the Free Marches by now, heading back towards Ferelden. They took in a new Keeper from outside the clan, along with a good herd of halla. I'm not really a Keeper. Mostly. Usually.”

“For a Mostly Usually Keeper, you look the part.” Dieter waved his hands in front of his face. “Tattoos, feathers, green and black themes, disconcerting observations...”

“I do not give 'disconcerting observations',” Merrill objected, looking hurt, “Varric said that it's _honesty_.”

“So do I,” Dieter laughed, raising his hands up, palms first, in mock surrender. “Feel free to make more of them.”

“Really?” Merrill perked up. “Nobody's ever said that to me before! Not even Varric. His words were, 'Daisy, it's honesty, but many people find that hard to swallow, so try to watch what you say'. You're so sweet. I do hope that Hawke keeps you.”

Dieter wasn't sure what he'd just let himself into, but looking at Merrill's wide, bright eyes, he couldn't quite correct himself now. Besides, he told himself that it would be utterly rude, seeing as he was about to impose on Merrill's hospitality for the night, and he had already seemingly cleared out her larder to appease his still adolescent pit of a stomach. “Uh. I doubt that's going to be a possibility.”

“Why not, he has a big house, it's clean and has many rooms and everything,” Merrill looked surprised at Dieter's statement.

“It's not a statistical problem,” Dieter decided to concentrate on scalding his tongue, because he didn't then have to look at Merrill's attentive expression of puzzlement. Maybe the Dalish had different moral systems? He wasn't sure. He'd met elves before, in the Wardens, but they tended to be city elves either running away from the alienage or that had accidentally gotten themselves tainted some way or another, and they were no different from the other Wardens.

“What is it then?” Merrill had her hands clasped together on the table, as though she was listening to a confession, or to a patient's list of ailments. “You don't like him?”

“Things would be so much easier if that were true,” Dieter groaned. 'Like' was growing into a wildly insufficient description despite his best efforts. “Hawke doesn't want me.”

“Of course he does,” Merrill said slowly, as though talking to a recalcitrant child, “You should have seen what happened this morning when everyone realized that you were missing. Varric said that he had a row with the Archon, then a row with Aveline when she refused to reorder all her guard patrols to look for you, and then he had a row with Emerson, that's the Archmage, probably just out of proximity, and then Carver had to drag him out of the Keep before things started catching fire.”

Dieter buried his face briefly in his hands. So much for the vain hope that things could stay quiet. “On second thoughts, could I stay here until the Archon decides to leave Kirkwall?”

“If you like,” Merrill said, generously, “But the hall is noisy during the daytime and sometimes at night I have patients. But Hawke's estate-”

“Hawke's estate is out of the question,” Dieter cut in hastily. “Hawke doesn't want _me_. He just... it's just because I look like my father. They were in love, weren't they? That just makes things wrong. When he looks at me, he's not looking at _me_.”

“You don't look exactly like Anders,” Merrill peered at him. “He had more, well,” she ran her hand briefly over her chin, “Scratchy fur. Hair.” Another pause. “Beard... no, that's not it, it was more like an almost-beard. He could never get it to grow any further than a little.”

Dieter had been looking forward to sporting an impressive and distinguished Irving-esque beard when he was older, and felt disappointed. “Other than that?”

“Your eyes are a little lighter in color and, well, your hair is shorter, he had to tie his, and, you're not as tall as he was, he was taller than Hawke, oh! And you're not grumpy,” Merrill said brightly. “And you have an accent. A different accent.”

“So other than my eyes, if I grew up a little and didn't open my mouth, I'll be a mirror image of Anders?”

“No. The lives we live leave marks on us. You wouldn't live a similar life to his, so, you'll look different. It's obvious. To any Keeper. You don't look like Anders at all to me and you never will.”

Dieter sighed. Merrill wasn't helping, though he had to give her credit for trying. “But to _shemlen_?”

Merrill squinted, then she conceded, “Maybe. But Hawke isn't like any _shemlen_ I've ever met. It'll all work out.”

Dieter wished he had Merrill's optimism. Killing his father had broken something deep within Hawke, something that had never healed but had simply been bricked back over, and he very much doubted that Hawke knew what he himself was doing right now. If he wanted Dieter, it was for the resemblance. If Dieter hadn't seen Hawke's raw grief, he might have gone with it anyway; Hawke was a handsome man and Dieter wasn't above a bit of fun whenever he could get it, especially if he could work the embarrassingly _immature_ hero-worship out of his system in the process, but he doubted very seriously that anything to do with Hawke in this state would be a 'bit of fun', or anything but destructive.

“We'll just be using each other. What do you think of the war? You were called in to vote. What would you feel if Hawke made a decision for Kirkwall just based on, I mean, that wasn't based on rational reasons?” Dieter very much doubted that Hawke would swing Kirkwall behind the mages simply because of Dieter himself. On that point, the Warden-Commander's plan – if there had been a plan at all – was failing miserably. “I left Weisshaupt to fight for a better future. That hasn't changed.”

“You _shemlen_ are always warring. I thought that it was not Kirkwall's fight. But if Hawke decides otherwise, the others in the quarter and I will stand with him,” Merrill rolled delicate shoulders into a shrug. “And people use each other all the time. There's nothing wrong with the process. It's the reasons that matter. Neither of you have... bad reasons. The both of you just think that you do, and just because you're afraid, you'll rather just remain unhappy about it, instead of working to change the reasons into _good_ reasons.” She smiled briefly, her big eyes crinkling. “Making things complicated is a _shemlen_ thing, I guess. Not even Hawke is immune.”

Dieter grimaced. “I can't believe that you don't think that there's anything wrong with this situation. Hawke is your _friend_.”

“He is, and he is my dearest friend,” Merrill rested her chin on her clasped hands, her smile fading as she glanced away, over at the shelves. “And he's been unhappy for a very, very long time. A part of him died then, or so I thought, during the Catalyst. Now it looks like he just put it away. That's good. Maybe he's finally healing.”

“Or maybe we're just pouring salt into his wounds,” Dieter pointed out, exhaling. He didn't really want to talk about this any longer. The temptation to take Merrill's words at face value was growing too great. “So how long did you know my father?”

“About six years. And a bit.”

After he had left Vigil's Keep, then. Anders must have come to Kirkwall. The Warden-Commander had been reticent on why and how Anders had left the Wardens when Dieter had mustered the courage to ask a tentative question about his parents during his brief interview with her in Vigil's Keep. “Could you tell me about him? Something. Anything.”

“All right,” Merrill said, taking a sip of her tea, and looking speculative. “We didn't usually get along, but I think that he tried to be a good man...”

VIII.

A militarised childhood meant that Dieter was awake at the crack of dawn, had washed up, neatened his borrowed bed, set the kettle to boil at the fireplace, and was in the process of raiding the larder self-consciously by the time Merrill crawled out from under her quilts and furs and stumbled off to the latrine, yawning.

They were having breakfast – or rather, Merrill was having tea and some biscuits, and Dieter was having the rest of her larder – when a chill wind swept into the hall and deposited a shivering dwarf at their table.

Varric was bundled up so much that he rather resembled a trenchcoated ball of wool, and he scowled at Dieter when he noticed the grin. “Well there you have it. Wonderboy's just having breakfast, it's not like he's been abducted by Coterie or whatever,” he muttered, his teeth chattering a little. “I'm getting on with my years. I shouldn't be forced to check on people having their breakfast in the middle of a freezing winter morning at my age.”

“You're not _old_ ,” Merrill said, as she brought over another cup and poured Varric some tea.

“Check on me?” Dieter repeated, blinking.

“Maker's bloody, uh, armpits,” Varric corrected himself, with a quick sidelong glance at Merrill. “You don't show up at the Keep first thing in the morning and it's hellfire and brimstone all over again, so I'm turned out of my nice, big, warm bed by a miserable looking Hunter to Check On Wonderboy. Now I'm going to send someone back to the Keep with a note to tell Hawke to get over himself.”

“It's still early in the morning,” Dieter said, startled. “Very early.”

“He could have come here himself,” Merrill added. “Or sent the Hunter here.”

“Don't look at me, Daisy. You know how some people approach courtship in a rational and logical manner? Hawke doesn't. Never has. And he's old enough to know better, really.” Varric sneezed wetly, and drained his tea. “Excuse me. Five minutes.”

Varric trundled back out of the hall, presumably to talk to someone outside of it, then he came back to the table, scraping snow off his shoulders. Wordlessly, Dieter poured him another cup of tea. He didn't know what to think – he wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to.

“That's sweet,” Merrill said wistfully. “Like the novels.”

“I don't know what novels you're reading,” Varric groused, “But I don't think they involve forcing old dwarves out into a blizzard to act as intermediaries. At the very _least_ , he should have written some sort of embarrassingly awkward love-letter that I could copy into my records.”

Dieter pushed his plate away, no longer hungry, and Varric snagged it close, helping himself to more ham and bread. “He's not... I'm not... everyone is roundly mistaken.”

“You're nineteen, Wonderboy-”

“Almost twenty!”

“Yeah, like half a year makes very much of a difference,” Varric said, unimpressed. “You're young, innocent and stupid in the way that only the young can be. _He's_ been hoarding his hang-ups obsessively for well over a decade. You'd think that things would have worked somewhere interesting by now. I keep telling him, for people in his position, having a Sweet Young Thing is perfectly normal. Besides, I have it on very good evidence that anyone else he's had in his bed since Anders pretty much looked like Anders anyway. I don't see why he's having a problem _now_. It's sort of like, continuity. Habit.”

Dieter groaned, rested his forehead on the scratchy wood of the table and clapped his hands over his ears as, despite all logical possibility, his cock twitched within his breeches at Varric's words. “I'm not listening!”

“He's worried that Hawke might make a decision about Kirkwall and the war because of him,” Merrill told Varric, still primly drinking her tea as though all Varric had done was come in and say hello.

“That's why I love kids,” Varric chuckled. “They think that the world changes if you have enough good intentions, that it revolves around themselves. Hawke might have a major problem a mile wide where his personal life is involved, but business is separate. Kirkwall will stay neutral. Short of something momentous happening, and even with my patented imagination I can't imagine _what_ that would be, seeing as we've already checked off bribery, threats, trade embargoes, actual sieges and Starkhaven. Besides,” Varric patted Dieter's shoulder, “I thought the general aim of your visit was to _get_ Hawke to make a stupid decision.”

“Not this way!” Dieter growled. “If he joins the cause, I want it to be because he believes in it!” He paused, and added, “And it's _not_ a stupid decision.”

“Ideology is for the young, impressionable and unemployed.” Varric shrugged. “That aside, I don't mind getting besieged again. At least there'll be something to write about. War's good for the underground economy. Running weapons and potions is far more profitable than black market dainties.”

“I can't believe that you think that.”

“I'm a dwarf. And a merchant.” Varric smirked. “And you're still a kid who thinks that war's all about _morality_ and a _better future_ and all those pretty words that people say to the poor sods in shining armor before they go out and get themselves killed. It's a waste and an ugly business and nobody really wins, but I can't deny that it's also a good way to turn a profit.”

“It's not like that,” Dieter protested, growing annoyed, “Irving-”

“Irving, the other 'Archmages', and people his age still with the 'mage cause' are doing it to survive. The Chantry won't show them mercy, so they can't give in. And when you get a situation like that, nothing ends. Chantry can't hold a truce, mages won't go back to the status quo, nobody will come to an agreement, so you'll all fight it out until the bitter end. Scorched earth.” Varric said, meditatively. “Though with what I hear about the runes of negation, the bitter end is probably coming sooner than you'll think.”

“So what, we should just stop fighting?” Dieter growled. “Let them pen everyone up again?”

“I'm just a merchant and a storyteller, Wonderboy,” Varric spread his arms wide. “I wouldn't know. I don't see a good end to this tale, that's all.”

“We could hold cities,” Dieter said, impulsively. “Make them like Kirkwall, where mages are accepted.”

“Because military occupation is _so_ conducive towards building public trust and acceptance.”

“You're upsetting him, Varric,” Merrill said reproachfully, “It's not his fault that the world doesn't have more people like Hawke.”

“I'm just saying, Daisy, that the only real way that the stalemate will end is if there's something else to fight together over,” Varric said blithely. “Another Archdemon? Another qunari attack? Insanity from the Tevinter Imperium? A sudden beer drought? I don't know. Otherwise, humans will just be humans. But in any regard,” Varric patted Dieter's arm, “I revise my previous comment that you shouldn't be here. I haven't been this entertained by Hawke for more than half a decade.”

IX.

Dieter assuaged his conscience by returning to the Keep once he was fairly sure that Hawke would be holding court. Irving agreed, with some reluctance, to allow him autonomy, as long as 'nothing catches fire' (clearly, the Archon was jaded from decades spent training and dealing with young mages in the Calenhad Circle) and Dieter had slunk off with a sense of relief. He spent the next few days assisting Merrill with her duties, healing the patients that trickled in to see her, and playing diamondback at night in a disreputable tavern called the Hanged Man with Varric. Unsurprisingly, the dwarf was very good at it, and he seemed tickled that Dieter could hold his own.

“Evidently, being bad at cards isn't hereditary,” Varric said, as they counted out their winnings, the other diamondback players having wobbled off in drunken disgust to drown their sorrows at the bar. “Unlike healing magic and hopeless causes.”

Dieter huffed, but he'd gotten used enough to Varric's sense of humor by now not to bother with working up a temper. “Wardens don't really have much use for coin. So we bet duties and patrol rosters.”

“Could see why there'd be an incentive to get better at this very fast.” Varric nodded, pushing a pile of coin to Dieter. “That's your share. And, if I'm not mistaken, that's Hawke.” There was a raised hubbub from the bar down the stairway, and Dieter hesitated in the middle of pocketing his share. “You _might_ still have time to leg it to the back and jump out of the window.”

Dieter scowled at Varric. “I'm not going to _run_.”

“Your choice.” Varric settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers, with the air of someone awaiting a show, and he grinned when Dieter rolled his eyes at him.

Outwardly, Hawke didn't look angry, but Dieter could smell fire and lightning, and the Viscount's hands were clenched as he looked Dieter over briefly, then glanced over at Varric. “Varric.”

“Hawke. Round of beer?”

“Some other time,” Hawke said neutrally. “I need to speak to Dieter.”

“He's right there.”

“In private.”

“Well, don't let me stop you.”

“I'll go,” Dieter said quickly, as the scent of fire and lightning intensified. “There are empty rooms. Varric, please pay Corff with some of my share.”

“It's too public,” Hawke disagreed.

“Hawke, everything became too public the moment you charged into the Hanged Man like you wanted to burn the place down,” Varric said, with an air of feigned weariness. “I'll think of something to spread around to explain everything, but in the meantime, just go and work it out of your system. You'll feel better.”

“What _have_ you been telling him?” Hawke demanded, but he allowed Dieter to tug him out and into the closest empty room, two doors down, the corridor thankfully (apparently) empty of eavesdroppers.

“Don't be angry with Varric. He's just good company. You should know, he's your friend,” Dieter said awkwardly, as they entered the room.

“I haven't seen you for _days_ ,” Hawke growled once Dieter got the door closed. “You said that you'd return to the Keep. Instead you spend your time with Merrill and Varric!”

Varric seemed to have omitted to add that Hawke's 'major problem' with his personal life seemed to include an irrational, jealous streak that was wider than Kirkwall. Hawke was loping in a tight circle, his mouth thin with anger, and Maker if it wasn't tempting to push back, pull Hawke into a kiss and just take what he could. “Up until the Archon leaves, we're not leaving. And there isn't much else for me to do.”

“The Archon isn't going to get what he wants,” Hawke said flatly. “Not any time soon. If you weren't here, I would have thrown him out of Kirkwall already for wasting my time, he and his delegates, just like we did for the others before him. You've all been here far too long. The Chantry will notice. The Divine might think that Kirkwall has changed its mind about neutrality. The last lyrium export was robbed on its way to Val Royeaux today. The Raiders know better than to touch my ships, and they don't use dreadnoughts.”

All of a sudden, Dieter could see the beauty of the trap that Hawke had fallen into. By being unwilling to throw Irving out of Kirkwall, Hawke was being forced to make a choice. And if he did not, the choice might have been made for him already anyway. This didn't look like a gamble that Irving was capable of thinking up of on his own. “I don't have to be here,” Dieter offered quickly. “I can leave tomorrow. Then you can do what you want.”

“By yourself?”

“I'll find my way. I'm good at invisibility spells.”

“No, it's too dangerous, I won't allow it,” Hawke snapped, without looking up.

“I was going to leave sooner or later anyway, to join the _war_ ,” Dieter pointed out, gritting his teeth. “I know how to get to Cumberland from here without using the sea routes. And this way you won't be pressured into something that you obviously hate.”

Hawke's lip twisted. “Didn't you want me to help the mages?”

“Not like this!” Dieter clenched his fists together. “I won't be part of some sort of... some sort of _honey trap_. You're a good man, you deserve... we _both_ deserve better than that. I don't want you to get involved in a war that you don't want or believe in just because-”

Dieter promptly forgot the rest of his reasoning when Hawke slammed him back against the door, hard enough for him to yelp in protest, and kissed him with a low, wrenching moan, ignoring Dieter's weak sounds of half-hearted objection and the fingers scratching blindly at his furred shoulders; it was rough, angry and possessive and nothing like the kiss in the alley, Hawke had his legs pulled up around his waist and was somehow, unbelievably, supporting his weight as Dieter held on and kissed him back and rubbed himself shamelessly against the hot arch of Hawke's arousal that was pressed against his arse.

Hawke let up briefly for air with a harsh gasp before taking his mouth again, grinding against him until Dieter was blind with want and _need_ and if Hawke's hand just moved up a little more from his hips and touched him he was going to come, he was so close. Hawke's confidence and skill was making him feel inadequate, he could do nothing more but clumsily attempt to reciprocate, carding his fingers desperately over Hawke's shoulders and his short hair and making the most embarrassingly vulnerable noises from the back of his throat. “Hawke, I'm,” he managed, when they next broke for air, and the intense, savagely hungry _look_ that Hawke shot him made his toes curl in his boots, his voice hitching higher, then he let out a decidedly unmanly squeal when Hawke leaned up and sank his teeth into his neck and _sucked_ , and Dieter's cock jerked in his breeches as he bucked desperately against the flat plane of Hawke's belly, against the layers of cloth and scaled armor, the hot rush of release taking him by surprise and snapping him tight.

Dazed, he allowed Hawke to somehow negotiate wayward furniture until they were both tumbled on the bed, and Hawke had his hands on his shoulders, kneeling on top of him, just _watching_ like he was wondering what to say. Dieter licked suddenly dry lips, his voice unsteady when he finally forced the words past his throat. “If you're going to tell me that _that_ wasn't 'meant for' me, I'm going to break your nose.”

Hawke makes a sound that was probably meant to be a laugh, but it was ugly and almost angry, his face twisting as he bent back down, and Dieter instinctively braced himself, but the kiss that came was gentle and sloppy and he was pushing eagerly into it even as he tried to rub his cheek against the gloved palm against it, like a touch-starved puppy or something equally pathetic. Hawke was everything he wanted right at this moment, and no one else would ever be able to compare, and he was mumbling something regrettable, probably along these lines, against Hawke's ear when the Viscount nipped down to his neck and bit _down_ again, chuckling as Dieter squeaked and arched.

He'd had sex before, in Weisshaupt Fortress, and in the sprawling township at the foot of its cliff, and in the cities he'd passed on his way here, but they were quick, clumsy affairs compared to this. Hawke was using the benefit of self-control and experience to take him slowly apart, negotiating the expanse of his skin as he slowly undid the catches of his robes; it was like nothing he'd ever had before, and he couldn't do anything but hold on to Hawke's shoulders and beg, _faster, more, don't tease_ -

Hawke growled when he tugged impatiently at silver-threaded hair, nuzzling at the jut of his hip and lapping a slow path down his pelvis. “Your hands. Up on the headboard. Now,” he added, when Dieter tried to say something, anything, and only ended up with a whimper as Hawke set his teeth high on his inner thigh and bit down hard enough to leave a mark for tomorrow, staring wide-eyed as Hawke drew a gloved forefinger through the mess on his already aching cock and popped it into his own mouth.

Dear Maker.

“You're so young,” Hawke murmured, to himself, kneeling between Dieter's legs with his gloved hands cupped under his thighs.

“If you're having second thoughts,” Dieter said, trying for gruff exasperation and coming out thin and desperate instead, “I _will_ set you on fire.”

“All these threats,” Hawke said, with an expression of mock horror. “I can't imagine what they teach you in Weisshaupt.” The wolf was slinking up his body, a sly twist to his mouth that Dieter wanted to kiss at until it melted away. “The next time I see my cousin, I'm going to have to lodge a formal complaint.”

The humor in the joke didn't reach Hawke's haunted eyes, though, even as he bent to take another kiss and _growled_ when Dieter managed to get his lower lip between his teeth, fumbling it, then letting out another squeak as he felt an electrical spark from the thumbs Hawke had pressed against his nipples, letting out heaving sobs of breath as Hawke muttered something hoarse under his breath and bit down on the lobe of his ear, marking him again.

“Where did you learn that, oh _Maker_ ,” Dieter breathed, wide-eyed. “I've never... using magic in bed... I didn't...”

It wasn't Dieter at his most coherent, but Hawke laughed darkly as he was busy nipping a way down the pulse at Dieter's throat, and he didn't answer, busy replacing his thumbs with his mouth instead, catching one of his nipples between his teeth as he stroked long fingers down to his waist, then to his arse, cupping and kneading the flesh as he forced Dieter to buck against a rough, leather-clad thigh thrust between his legs, his other gloved hand swiping through the sticky mess and closing tight around his aching flesh.

“Don't, _don't_ ,” Dieter babbled, trying to warn Hawke that he was close, _again_ , when fingers slid down to squeeze and fondle his balls, then Hawke pressed the forefinger and middle finger of his free hand at the sensitive patch of skin just behind his tightening balls even as he clenched his hand tight and _up_ over his cock, and at the spark of electricity Dieter dug his nails into the headboard as he arched off the bed with a shout.

He was still panting and limp on the sheets when he finally blinked the spots out of his vision, and Hawke was kneeling, one hand splayed on Dieter's thigh, all proprietary, and he was _licking_ his other soiled, gloved hand clean. Dieter let out a ragged moan as his prick tried to stir.

“I thought that you didn't undertake the Joining,” Hawke said, so conversationally as he noticed, pulling off his gloves.

“I didn't.” Dieter said, somewhat puzzled at the statement. “Why?”

“Never you mind,” Hawke dropped his gloves off the bed, and was working on the catches of his complex armor. “I've forgotten what it was like to be young.”

Dieter muttered an Anderfels curse and rubbed his palm up his face. He was getting a little tired of Hawke's fixation on his age. “What does that have to do with the Joining?”

“Nothing,” Hawke said, pulling off his undershirt and dropping it off the bed along with his armor, unbuckling the sash at his belt as Dieter, shivering as the fluids on his belly cooled, belatedly wormed his way under the furs and sheets. It didn't take long before Hawke joined him, drawing him up against a frame that seemed to be all hot, compact muscle. For someone who seemed to spend most of his time sitting on the throne, Hawke was fit, and he was smirking at Dieter's appreciative expression as he explored Hawke's body with tentative hands, occasionally stroking thumbs or forefingers up the jagged edges of old scars.

“Let me do something for you,” Dieter asked, somewhat shyly, as he straddled Hawke's waist.

At Hawke's nod, Dieter leaned forward to claim a kiss that was equal parts awkward and clumsy until Hawke curled his hand around the back of Dieter's neck and took over, turning it slow and deep and so _intimate_ that warmth began to pool within his belly, his hands curling over the cases of the pillows; he tried to lick back into Hawke's mouth, ended up clacking their teeth together instead, and at Hawke's muffled chuckle, he pulled away, cheeks flaming and eyes averted. He wasn't _inexperienced_ , but he was nervous, and he wasn't entirely sure whether Hawke wasn't, somewhere in the back of his mind, making comparisons. Hawke's eyes were dark and unreadable, and Dieter didn't want to examine that thought too closely.

Under the sheets he couldn't see Hawke's eyes, at least, although this wasn't exactly something that Dieter was used to doing. He'd tried pleasing a man this way, once or twice, but he had never exactly found it pleasant. Still, the few partners whom he'd done this to before seemed to enjoy it, and he couldn't really think of anything else to do that Hawke would like. Scooting between Hawke's legs, he pushed his thighs open, enjoying the easy flex of muscle under his palms, and set to licking at Hawke's balls, tentatively at first, then more confidently as he heard a muffled gasp and felt long fingers curl into his hair. He'd had someone do this to him in Cumberland, and he'd nearly come on the spot at that time.

Hawke's hips jerked and he _growled_ when Dieter took to sucking in what he could, first one, then the other, his nose pressed against coarse curls and the thick scent of musk and Hawke's sex, and as he started back on the first, hands curled under his arms and dragged him back up. Dieter blinked as he was pulled out of the sheets, scrambling for balance, squeaking as he was pulled into a rough, hungry kiss that had him trembling against Hawke when he was allowed to breathe.

“I'm not finished.” He hadn't even tried sucking Hawke's cock. In a way, it was a bit of a relief. Dieter wasn't particularly good at it; he could never remember to keep his teeth folded behind his lips.

“You can play all you want next time,” Hawke's eyes were blown dark with lust, “Right now I want something else.” Wet fingers dragged up the cleft of Dieter's arse, making it clear what Hawke wanted. At Dieter's hesitation, however, Hawke frowned. “But if you'd prefer-”

“No, I, don't mind,” Dieter said quickly.

“Too fast?”

“The last time I tried it,” Dieter mumbled, “It wasn't exactly enjoyable. But I know that it is. Can be. When I-”

“Don't talk about other people,” Hawke interrupted, his voice edged, then the jealousy smoothed away into a sort of hungry anticipation. “Let me try to persuade you. If you don't like it, we'll do something else.”

“All right,” Dieter said, if dubiously, watching as Hawke reached over for a potion that he'd left on the side of the bed from his belt. He took the first finger in with a sharp inhalation, then Hawke was rolling him onto his back and kissing him fiercely until he felt like he was drowning, and he didn't quite register the second, the third fingers until Hawke crooked them, up and sharply within him and rubbed against something that made his head snap back on the pillows with a yelp, pleasure in a white-hot spark, arcing up his spine, and he was hard again, rutting shamelessly against Hawke's thigh and he wanted-

Hawke growled and ignored his babbled words and kissed him again even as he continued to spread him, stroking his fingers in and out, knuckle-deep, the rough pads always curling up to brush against the perfect spot until he was so close to the edge that he was shaking from it. “Hawke, I'm close, _Hawke_ ,” Dieter moaned, digging his nails into Hawke's shoulders and clawing down his broad back, giving Hawke some markings of his own.

“Turn around,” Hawke purred, breathless and strained, and Dieter hastily obeyed, sucking in another breath as Hawke nudged his thighs open, spreading them as far as they could go before propping a pillow under him, chuckling again as he rubbed against it with a low hiss, then he squeaked as Hawke landed a slap on his arse. “You'll come again,” Hawke was growling into his ear, “As many times as I want you to.”

Hawke made a hoarse, animalistic noise when he pushed in, slowly, waiting him out whenever Dieter tensed up out of instinct, pushing in again when he managed to relax, until he could feel the weight of Hawke's slicked balls pressed up against him, and he was dizzy from the friction, from the weird sensation of being so _full_ , every breath from his throat shallow and strangled. It wasn't unpleasant, but it didn't feel good, even with Hawke curled over him and murmuring something incoherent but probably extremely filthy into his ears, stroking at his arms, his back, down his spread thighs.

Then the hot pressure seemed to ease off, slowly at first, then all the way, and when Hawke rolled his hips, experimentally, Dieter gasped and arched. “Ah!”

“... you're so _tight_ ,” Hawke grit out, his monologue cutting short into a groan, then he shifted and rolled his hips again, more roughly, pressing up against the bundle of nerves within him, and Dieter squealed, clawing at the sheets, blinking away stars in his vision. “There we go,” Hawke purred, catching his ear in his teeth and tugging lightly, playfully, as he thrust in again. “Make that sound again.” At the next thrust, Hawke pulled his hips up to meet him, and Dieter obliged despite himself, pitching a little higher this time. “Andraste's flaming tits,” Hawke muttered, in a liquid snarl, as Dieter braced himself and bucked back into the next thrust, clenching tight, “I'm not going to be able to keep this gentle.”

“Do it,” Dieter urged breathlessly. “Come _on_. You want it, _I_ want it-”

“Shut up, just, just be quiet,” Hawke growled as he surged forward in a sharp snap of his hips that made Dieter gasp wetly, then Hawke was pounding into him, the bed creaking dangerously beneath them, and it was like nothing Dieter had ever felt, this wild exhilaration, and through the thick fog of pleasure that mounted and built he was dimly aware that he was spilling again, shuddering violently, babbling and crying out Hawke's name, and Hawke had his teeth sunk into his shoulders, hips rolling shallowly, riding him out.

“We'll try for one more,” Hawke said, sounding all too smug, buried balls-deep and still hard within him when Dieter stopped gasping for air, then he laughed when Dieter merely growled and squirmed to grind up against him.

X.

Hawke was fully dressed by the time Dieter's ~~stomach~~ military training woke him up the next morning, seated on the edge of the bed and staring at his hands. Dieter rolled over in the sheets, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. At the side dresser, beside the bed, there was a candle that hadn't been there before, burned down, as though Hawke had lit it sometime in the night to watch him sleep.

By the dark hollows under Hawke's distant eyes, it didn't look like the Viscount had gotten any rest himself.

“Good morning.” Dieter murmured, in the common tongue of the Anderfels, then corrected himself in Thedas common when Hawke glanced at him.

“I should return to the Keep.”

“All right,” Dieter said sleepily, stretching luxuriously under the sheets. “Does this place serve breakfast?”

A tired smile flit briefly over the severe line of Hawke's mouth. “I don't think I would try it, if I were you.”

“Nothing spices up a morning like indigestion.” He ached pleasantly all over, and it was disconcerting to look at Hawke and see a man standing at the brink of a precipice. “Listen. Last night doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to.”

“Doesn't it?”

“I'm young, but I'm not stupid,” Dieter said carefully. “You didn't want me on my back when you took me, where you'd have gotten a clear look at the color of my eyes. And you never once said my name, even, even _when_. It's all right. It's not like I didn't want to-”

Hawke let out a low, wrecked sound, his face buried in his hands. “You're young, and you're _very_ stupid, to accept that from me. From anyone.”

Dieter snorted. “As though we've all, never ever, slept with someone while thinking of someone else? Please. Varric said that you've had others, after my father, and they all looked like him. I think that you have a serious problem. But don't ruin a perfectly good memory with it. I don't have many perfectly good memories that don't involve killing darkspawn.”

“ _I'm_ the one with a problem?” Hawke asked out loud, but the attempt at humor again didn't reach his eyes. “And you're different.”

“So maybe I look a lot more like Anders than anyone else that you've used as a substitute.” Dieter shrugged, keeping a tight hold of the hurt that threatened to leach out into his voice. “That's fine by me. No one other than you and your friends know it, anyway. Thanks to you and Varric, I guess.”

“What are you doing next?”

“I'm going to tell Irving that I want to leave. I feel like I'm wasting time here. I'll rejoin the other Warden mages at Cumberland. I'm hungry, and I don't want to argue with you.”

Hawke's lips curled up briefly. “Andraste save us from the appetite of a nineteen-year-old.”

“...twenty...” Dieter muttered.

Hawke ignored him, dropping his hands, staring at the door, now. “I thought about stepping down. As Viscount.”

Dieter sat up quickly. “You can't. You're not, Kirkwall needs you, you _can't_ , you don't even _like_ , you're not interested in the war, and besides,” he added, with a deep breath, “You don't even know me.”

“I haven't been able to concentrate on very much at all since I first saw you in the throne room.” Hawke said quietly. “Besides, this way, you get something that you want, don't you?”

“That's not _true_ -”

“I'll fight in your cause,” Hawke interrupted evenly, “If you're going to try and get yourself killed in its name.”

Dieter ran a shaky hand through his hair. “That's not what I want.” He took in a harsh breath. “Not any more. I can't ask you to fight a war that you don't believe in. Do you even have a successor?”

“Carver-”

“He's a Hunter. We need a mage on the throne. To show the rest of Thedas that nothing will be any different.”

“But you'll leave.”

“And you'll find someone else who looks like my father to warm your bed,” Dieter didn't mean for his words to sound so sharp, but he was beginning to feel anxious. “You can't leave Kirkwall. The Chantry might be... you just said that the Chantry might be trying something. I'll visit, I'll write you letters, if you want. But unless you believe in the war, I don't want you to join it on account of a man who's been dead for more than _ten years_! You have to let go sometime, Hawke,” Dieter forced his voice into a gentle register, as Hawke flinched as though he'd been struck. “Forgive yourself.”

Hawke stared at him, his lips thinned, his fingers flexing, then he abruptly reached forward, so quickly that Dieter nearly brought up his hands to block. Hands curled around the back of his skull, and Hawke was brushing a kiss over his mouth, then over his eyes, and lastly, over his forehead. “Take care of yourself, Dieter,” Hawke said, raw and hoarse.

“I will.”

postscript 1.0

Irving wasn't happy about it, but he wasn't an unreasonable man, and to Dieter's relief, he agreed to leave as well, after Dieter managed a halting explanation that wasn't too scandalous. He left out Hawke's stated suggestion that he step down as Viscount, and concentrated on appealing to Irving's sympathies.

They reached Cumberland on the cusp of a siege. Ghislain had fallen. But on the back of the bad news came a fragment of good, from the survivors that streamed into Cumberland and the other Circles-held cities. The Warden mages were immune to the runes of negation.

Dieter left westward on a fast horse, heading for Vigil's Keep. The Warden-Commander had to be told.

As it turned out, the Warden-Commander already _knew_. “But it's not a long term solution,” she said impatiently, drumming her fingers on the dispatches at her desk, as Dieter stared at her hands and tried not to look into her frightening eyes. “If we were to make every mage undergo the Joining, we'll kill more of them than the Chantry would. Something about the Joining ritual makes the runes of negation ineffective. I have a contact within the qunari – they were the ones from whom the Chantry acquired the items which allowed them to forge the runes. I have posed him the question.”

“The qunari aren't famous for being helpful.”

“They are, however, very conscientious with their debts,” The Warden-Commander snapped, “And it affects them as well. They use very specialised runes, on their _saarebas_. If there was a flaw to their design, they too would be curious to know of it. Hopefully, before every Circles-held city falls to the damned Chantry.”

“The Wardens don't usually get involved in politics,” Dieter said hesitantly.

The Warden-Commander made an ugly, barking sound. “Oh? One of us is a King, and I am the Arlessa of Amaranthine. As well as a mage. A large number of the Wardens are mages, and Warden mages are invaluable against the darkspawn. We all know where the wind is blowing.” She sniffed. “But you're right. I can't appear to get involved, not yet. And my cousin is far more stubborn than I thought. _Blast_. If he'd caved, things would have been much easier.”

Dieter felt defensive, but his respect for the Warden-Commander forced him to still his temper. “I don't think he deserved that. He's a good man.”

“Stubborn men usually are,” the Warden-Commander conceded. “Your father was also a stubborn man. As are you. Andraste save me from your ilk.” She tossed him a package, which he nearly fumbled. “Get that to Ferelden's King. I think it's time that he stepped up an initiative against the Chantry-sanctioned pirates on the Waking Sea. Since the Chantry is attacking Kirkwall ships, we should intervene. Politically, it's an olive branch.”

“You'll command the King of Ferelden?” Dieter asked wryly. The Warden-Commander was beginning to show her hand, despite her words. If Fereldan ships attacked the Chantry dreadnoughts ostensibly on behalf of Kirkwall, it would constitute a clear provocation where the Divine was concerned. Hawke would have to find another buyer for his lyrium.

“He's also a Warden, isn't he?” The Warden-Commander pointed out dryly, though there was a faint smirk playing on her full lips. “Get going. And your invisibility spell is good, but inconsistent. You're going to have to get better, and quickly.”

“Why did you wait so long? If I may ask, ser,” Dieter added, more respectfully. “You have an army in Amaranthine. If you intended to get involved all this while, why not earlier, when the Chantry was still trying to get organised? Before they discovered the runes?”

“I didn't want another Tevinter. And the way that matters were playing out in some of the cities, we would have created another Imperium. It wasn't yet time.” The Warden-Commander slouched in her chair, fingers steepled together. “There was one more pawn, that had yet to ascend to his place. I was waiting for him to grow older.”

“Him? Older? A place?” Dieter asked, confused. “You waited more than ten years to join the war because of a _child_?”

“He's a little older than you are. And no longer a child. A son of a friend of mine.” The Warden-Commander's smile was sharp, knife-like. “And for all of her efforts to hide him from me... a most singular boy. Soon he'll rise to his birthright, and the Circles will be swept under his flag. He's been raised well, in a good place,” the Warden-Commander's smile softened a fraction. “A new world order will come.”

“This person... a powerful mage?” Dieter couldn't quite grasp how one man could change Thedas like the Warden-Commander envisaged.

“He is much more than a mage.”

“Where is he now? If he's so important... Kirkwall,” Dieter deduced, wide-eyed, as the Warden-Commander chuckled. “'Raised well, in a good place'... He's in _Kirkwall_. How did you keep it from Hawke?”

“For all his connections and his curiosity, my cousin doesn't know everything. On his twenty-first year the boy will awaken in full.” The Warden-Commander pursed her lips, looking distant. “And the world will change with him.”

postscript 2.0

Hawke flung up a hand at the updraft, squinting against the sun until the the dragon winged away, spouting a ball of flame up into the sky, roaring a greeting and challenge both at the distant speck of the second dragon. “I wish that they'd teach me that trick,” he said, wistfully.

The man standing beside him snorted, not even bothering to pull back his hood. Time hadn't been kind to Hawke, where Archon Dieter was concerned; the older that Dieter became, the more he looked like his father. Seeing him was painful, but staying away was worse. Hiding a wry smile, Hawke straightened, rubbing out a kink at his back. Cold weather made his old wounds ache.

“I have some dispatches for you, from your cousin, and then when my stomach stops trying to crawl out of my throat, we can have dinner.”

“You didn't have to fly here,” Hawke pointed out dryly, as they began to stroll back towards the Keep, the late afternoon sun painting shadows over the light snowfall.

“I didn't _want_ to fly here,” Dieter groused. “His Scaly Majesty decided that it would be _hilarious_ to fly me here on his back, and your evil cousin and his grandmother seemed to think that it was just _precious_ , and that was that.”

“Did you know where they were going to next?”

“Ferelden, I think. After they terrorize the Waking Sea for a while.” Dieter shuddered visibly. “Sometimes there's a little more Old God in him than human.”

“But you've had your revolution.” Hawke noted quietly, inclining his head as a city guard patrol saluted them. “How goes your better tomorrow?”

Dieter pulled a face at him. “Getting people to change is always difficult. But I think we'll get there. I've written to you about it in my letters.”

Hawke knew that – he had all of Dieter's letters carefully filed away in a chest in his estates. “Then, after that? You'll retire? No more hopeless causes?” Hawke asked dryly.

“I suppose I could champion the rights of kittens not to be belled,” Dieter mused, though he grinned mischievously as he said this. “What about you, old man? Shouldn't you think of retiring? Soon there'll be more silver than black in your hair.”

Hawke mock-scowled at Dieter. “Careful, boy. If I wanted to, I'll wipe the floor with you.”

“Just don't throw your back in the process,” Dieter laughed, though he stepped carefully out of punching range. “That aside, you look... better. It's been a while. Since I've seen you.”

 _Eight months, five days_ , Hawke thought, but he nodded slowly. The new Archon had been very busy since Irving's death, and Hawke had been busy dealing with the boisterous 'His Scaly Majesty' and his latest ideas about the Free Marches and mage integration. Having a dragon land on the roof of the palace of a city might solve some problems, but it wouldn't get Prince Vael to concede to any demands. Probably.

“Are you... well, have you made your peace?” There was a little of the stuttering boy in the Archon still, despite his best efforts, and some of the disconcerting hero-worship seemed to have survived time's ravages. The parts of it which had been subsumed had been replaced with an affection that was far more damning.

And Maker, but he was never selfless enough to stop wanting it. “I've been trying.” At least he still had the decency not to lie.

Dieter exhaled, and looked away. “It's been years, Hawke. I won't wait forever.”

“I know. And you shouldn't.”

“I'll...” Dieter clenched his fists, then he exhaled. “Never mind. I haven't seen you in a long time, and my stomach's stopped trying to kill itself. Can we eat?”

“There's a new place in the eastern end of Lowtown that I think that you'll enjoy,” Hawke said, wishing that it still didn't hurt a little when Dieter smiled suddenly, so happy for attention. He couldn't quite remember if Anders had ever worn an expression like that. It seemed likely. His memories of Anders were fading slowly, growing confused. _Melding_. “And then Varric wanted to challenge you to a game of diamondback.”

“Challenge accepted,” Dieter cracked his knuckles gleefully, then he frowned as he got a good look at Hawke's face. “Hawke? Are you... are you feeling well?”

Hawke forced a smile. “I'm fine. Just distracted. How long will you be in Kirkwall?”

“Few days. Depending on how long His Scaly Majesty stretches his fun. Longer, if you want me to.”

 _I want you here. Until the day I die._ The memory curled in a warm blanket in Hawke's mind, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them hastily, casting a glance over the thick whorls of ivy that crept up the whitewashed walls of a Hightown mansion to his right. “A few days, then.” He closed his eyes tightly, willing the memory away. “That would be perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> fin... lol... I actually intended to finish the fic with end part X, but then I felt that readers might want to know how the war was going to end. The Old God is Morrigan's child. Sorry to those looking for a happy ending! :3 Most of the other fics I have written had happy, sappy endings, so I wanted a change and something somewhat more realistic. Thanks for reading!


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